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SIGNORA 


K— m— I 


By 


GUSTAV KOBBE 

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New York 

Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 
Publishers 


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UBRARVof dt^NQRESS 

Twp Copies Received 

i JUN 16 I 90 r 

/f Copyright Entry 

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.pLASS Ct XXc„Ne. 

COHY B. 


Copyright, 190a 
By Robert Howard Russell 
Copyright, 1907 

By Thomas Y. Crowell Co. 





To 

Dtcflinia 



I 


S you probably never have 
heard of Yudels, you doubtless will be sur- 
prised to learn that to have given opera with- 
out him would have been quite impossible. 

If, just as the curtain was about to ring 
up, one of the Queen s ancient-looking ladies 
in waiting (fresh from a supper of spa- 
ghetti and garlic) clutched at the back of 
her head with a despairing gesture which 
signified that her coiffure was tottering on 
its throne, there was Yudels at hand with a 
hairpin or comb produced from the depths 
of his coat pocket. 

Yudels had been a chorus singer — one of 
the “ Signori del Coro ” — whose duty it was 
to stand straight in line half way up the 
stage and with machine-like precision and a 
total lack of facial expression, ejaculate in 
[ I ] 



SIGNORA 


Italian, “ I tremble ! ” while the tenor 
pranced up and down in front of them, vow- 
ing to run his sword through his own body 
if the prima donna should happen to prefer 
the baritone. Now he was a general utility 
man behind the scenes. The hairpin and 
comb, for the benefit of the distressed 
“ chorus lady,” were mere hints as to the 
possibilities of his coat pocket. It seemed 
as if all the many small articles needed in an 
emergency behind the scenes had been 
caught up in a whirlpool and ultimately de- 
posited in its depths. 

It might chance that during a “Faust” 
performance, as the tenor was about to “go 
on ” to sing the famous Salve di Mora, one 
of his moustachios suddenly became loos- 
ened and drooped limp and disconsolate 
over the lips which were to breathe forth 
the tender romanza. Even so guileless a 
girl as Marguerite would know that mous- 
tachios are not intended to grow in different 
directions and would find it ridiculous. An 
agonized look toward Yudels from the 
tenor — perhaps it was his debut in the 
[ 2 ] 


SIGNORA 


rdle — and Yudels was hurrying in the di- 
rection of the “ prompt entrance,” his hand 
delving in that marvellous pocket from 
which, even as he ran, it produced a bottle 
of spirit gum with which the dangling bit of 
hirsuterie was promptly affixed to its proper 
base — and the evening was saved. 

Or they were giving one of the music- 
dramas from “ His Nibs of the Ringelun- 
gen,” as Yudels called them, with the con- 
tempt a chorus singer of Italian opera feels 
for Wagner ; and the prima donna com- 
plained of sudden huskiness after the first 
act, and wanted the intermission prolonged 
— and that in a performance which, at its 
best, would not be over until after midnight. 
In a few minutes Yudels would be at her 
dressing-room door, in his hand a glass con- 
taining the white of an egg and the juice of 
a lemon, and soon afterwards the prima 
donna would announce that the perform- 
ance might proceed. 

Just about this time the staff physician of 
the opera house, a distinguished and highly 
feed specialist, would appear upon the 
[ 3 ] 


SIGNORA 


scene. For the benefit of this specialist 
there was kept in the box office a surgical 
chest with splints and bandages and anti- 
septics enough to last through a military 
campaign. This surgical outfit had never 
been used but once, when a chorus singer 
broke his leg “ from falling over his own 
feet,” as Yudels kindly observed. Sum- 
moned behind the scenes to the prima 
donna, the physician would present himself 
in her dressing-room with a throat sprayer 
and a bottle of solution ready to spray 
Madame’s larynx, pharynx, epiglottis and 
other things with scientific names. After a 
pleasant chat — the prima donna no longer 
requiring his services, since Yudels had been 
there — he would return to the “ front of the 
house” and despatch an usher to deposit 
the sprayer and solution in a closet in the 
box office where they were kept, conveniently 
distant from the very spot where they were 
most needed. 

Every opera in the company’s repertoire, 
no matter in what language it was given, 
Yudels knew from memory, inside out, 
[ 4 ] 


SIGNORA 


upside down, wrong end foremost. As 
what might be called an impromptu 
prompter, no one could hold a “ bunch ” 
light to him. It sometimes happened that 
a singer was so far “ up stage ” he could not 
catch the prompter’s voice from the turtle- 
back in front of the conductor’s desk. His 
eye would wander wildly about in search of 
the assistant prompter who should have 
been in the wings nearby, but happened at 
that moment to have climbed up a ladder 
with the prima donna, who had to make her 
entrance on a balcony or a mountain peak 
and wanted him to give her her cue. In 
this crisis Yudels would crawl out behind a 
canvas tree or fountain or some other ‘‘ set 
piece” to within hearing distance of the 
embarrassed singer and whisper his “ Ri- 
sotto Milanese ! Spaghetti Parmesan ! 
Patd de Clam ! Soup h la Reine ! ” or “ Nix 
komm heraus aus de Deutschmann’s Haus ! ” 
— according as the opera was Italian, French 
or German. (You observe I am quoting 
from memory. Yudels did it better.) 

Yet in spite of Yudels’ complete familiarity 

[ 5 ] 


SIGNORA 


with the company’s repertoire, no one — 
from the $1750 a night Carmen or Romeo, 
to the fifty cent boy who played the front 
legs of the “ Siegfried ” dragon — remem- 
bered having seen him take part in an 
operatic performance. 

There was a tradition behind the scenes 
that Yudels had been not only a chorus 
singer, but a chorus singer fired with ambi- 
tion. He did not indeed aspire to be a 
Faust, Romeo, Raoul or Edgardo. To a 
certain extent he knew his own limitations. 
He was quite aware that never would there 
be posted up in the lobby a notice to the 
effect that “ owing to the sudden indisposi- 
tion of Signor Yudels, Signor Vermicelli 

has been substituted in the rdle of . 

Ticket holders wishing to have their money 
refunded are requested to apply to the box 
office.” In his weirdest aspirations Yudels 
never dreamed of people asking to have 
their money refunded because he was not 
to sing. No — Yudels’ yearnings were lim- 
ited. 

In every opera there are minor solo rdles 

[ 6 ] 


SIGNORA 


like Ruiz, Manrico’s servitor in “ Trovatore,” 
who enters with Lenora, “ enveloped in 
cloaks,” and sings four lines, “ in an under- 
tone.” Ruiz would have satisfied Yudels* 
ambition even with the “undertone.” As 
for the Messaggiero in “Aida,” the messen- 
ger who tells in a few brief lines, but with 
graphic gesticulation (in the course of which 
the bow with which he is armed can be 
waved wildly and with great effect) how the 
Egyptian army has been routed by the 
hosts of Amonasro — could Yudels have 
been cast for that rdle, he would have 
felt as if he were a notable figure in the 
musical world and would pass into history. 
It opened up vistas — especially the waving 
of the bow — which stirred his ambition and 
thrilled his soul. 

Alas poor Yudels! Not even that was 
to crown his career. Neither chorus mas- 
ter, orchestral leader, nor impressario recog- 
nized the greatness that was mutely appeal- 
ing to them, and was going to waste in their 
midst, so to speak. And so it was that, 
when the management wanted a general 

[7] 


SIGNORA 


utility man to look after odds and ends 
which it seemed no one else’s business to 
attend to, Yudels — his hopes blasted — ap- 
plied for the position. Getting it, he promptly 
resigned from the chorus — gave up the priv- 
ilege of looking like an Italian barber in a 
Scotch kilt in “Lucia”; of being a conspir- 
ator, an assassin, a courtier, a fisherman or a 
warrior ; and of standing in line and exclaim- 
ing “ what horror ! ” whenever the love-smit- 
ten and persecuted heroine looked as if she 
were going to have cramps. 


[ 8 ] 


II 


MONG other odds and ends 
which, as occasion demanded, fell within 
Yudels’ sphere of duty was now and then 
to relieve the stage door-keeper. He tried 
to arrange this duty for Wagner nights. 
He hated Wagner, and the stage door was 
about as far away from the stage as he could 
get. Moreover, the noise from the street 
sometimes, as Yudels put it, “drowned the 
noise on the stage.” 

There was no reconciling the old chorus 
singer to the prophet of Bayreuth. When 
asked, for instance, if he did not appreciate 
the depth and beauty of the love scene be- 
tween Sigemund and Sieglande in the first 
act of “ Die Walkure,” he exclaimed : 
“ Love scene ! — they sound like two dogs 
barking at each other.” Wagner required 

[9] 



SIGNORA 


serpents, dragons, magic fire, maidens on 
winged steeds coursing through the clouds ; 
the good old-fashioned operatic composers 
asked only for some one who could sing. 
That was Yudels’ staple argument. Noth- 
ing any one could say about deeply moving 
dramatic plots that underlay the Wagner 
music-dramas, of the wondrous woof of lead- 
ing motives, and the marvellous welding of 
music and drama, moved him. He merely 
shrugged his shoulders and asked “bel 
canto ? ” and answered his own question 
with an emphatic “non!” To show his 
utter contempt for the supposed arch enemy 
of bel canto, he even had devised a joke. 
Sometimes, when the orchestra was tuning 
up, when fiddles were scraping, flutes 
screeching, clarinets wailing, bassoons 
squawking, double basses growling, and 
trombones grunting, Yudels would say : 
“ Ah ! we have Wagner to-night. I hear 
the overture.” Small wonder he chose 
Wagner nights for his “trick ” at the stage 
door. 

Have you ever seen a stage entrance or 
[ lo ] 


SIGNORA 


tried to conjure it up in your imagination as 
you recline in the luxuriously upholstered 
chairs of the opera house ? The scene be- 
fore you is so brilliant you hardly can be- 
lieve it stops short with the dimensions of 
the stage — with what the eye beholds — but 
are convinced it must extend far beyond. 
Everything is life and action. The glitter 
fires your imagination. Surely the various 
characters, as they make their exits from 
the stage before your eyes, pass through 
long colonnades of marble to suites of regal 
apartments. The scene looks so real that 
in your fancy the palace spreads throughout 
all the space behind the scenes and the 
stage door must be the gilded gate 
through which it is entered from the outer 
world. 

But alas ! all is dross. Step behind one 
of those columns and you will see a strip of 
unpainted canvas mounted on wooden fram- 
ing. Off the stage ‘‘grips” in white over- 
alls and noiseless felt slippers are shoving 
about trees, parts of houses, precipices, and 
other varieties of the handiwork of nature 
[ II ] 


SIGNORA 


and man, so as to be able quickly to set the 
next scene. Doublet and hose do not make 
the Polish tenor, who is languishing in the 
garden of the Capulets, the real lover of 
Verona ; nor does a sixteenth-century gown 
change the prima donna at the casement 
into a real Juliet. And the exquisite cool, 
blue moonlight that softly enfolds the lovers? 
The chief electrician simply has ordered his 
assistant at the switchboard, which controls 
all the lights in the house, to “work in his 
blues in the * borders'.” Nor will the ill- 
fated lovers really kill themselves in the 
tomb of the Capulets. The curtain will 
not be down a second before Romeo, who 
has swallowed deadly poison, and J uliet, who 
has pierced her heart with Romeo’s dagger, 
will spring to their feet to hasten before the 
footlights and acknowledge with innumer- 
able smiles and bows the applause of the 
audience. 

It is all unreal — all the glitter and splen- 
dor of it, all the comedy and tragedy. The 
gilded palace gate of the imagination was 
never there ; and if ever there was a prosaic 
[ 12 ] 


SIGNORA 

entrance to a realm of fancy, it is the stage 
door. 

Generally it is a mere slit in the wall with- 
out a step leading up or down to it, but 
opening right on a level with the street so 
that whoever enters seems at once swallowed 
up by the “ house.” It is narrow because 
part of the passageway into which it leads is 
taken up with a cubby-hole in which sits the 
theatrical Cerberus, peering through a small 
pane of glass. Sometimes he doesn’t sit 
there but tilts back his chair at an acute 
angle against the wall of the passageway and 
drawing up his legs so that his heels rest on 
a rung of the chair, gazes with an air of com- 
plete abstraction at the opposite wall. This 
until he hears some one approaching from 
without, when he scowls. For the stage- 
doorkeeper regards every one as an enemy 
until proved to be a friend. Even the orig- 
inal Cerberus probably did not keep so strict 
a watch as his theatrical successor. It is 
conceivable that the mythological monster 
may at times have allowed his three heads 
to fall asleep — even three heads may become 

[ 13 ] 


SIGNORA 


weary — and have permitted an occasional 
guileless soul, that had no business at all 
snooping around Hades, to slip past. But a 
theatrical Cerberus never is guilty of such 
laches. With his one head he can look as 
fierce and growl as loudly as his mythologi- 
cal prototype did with three. Unless you 
are a member of the company or have a pass 
from the manager, you stay out in the street. 

But the stage door of an opera house is 
somewhat more elaborate. A $ 1 750 a night 
voice has to be carefully guarded. Draughts 
must be excluded as much as possible. An 
opera company is a large organization and 
from half past six, when the prima donnas, 
who like to take plenty of time over their 
coiffures and costumes, begin to arrive, until 
the performance begins, there is a constant 
opening and shutting of the stage door. It 
never would do to have the cold blasts of a 
winter night sweep staccato through the 
labyrinth of passageways. For it is mar- 
vellous how delicate a prima donna’s voice 
becomes after she has made her success. 
Early in her career she may have been glad, 

[ 14 ] 


SIGNORA 


as was a now famous prima donna, to secure 
a winter engagement at some small Italian 
opera house, where her dressing-room was 
so cold she was obliged to carry a brazier 
of charcoal from her lodgings to the theatre 
in order to keep warm during waits. But 
success once achieved — once in the front 
rank of singers — a prima donna’s voice 
becomes the most delicate thing in the world 
(as well as her disposition one of the most 
curious). For this reason, the stage door at 
the opera house is not reached directly from 
the street. A short flight of iron steps 
leads up to it and a storm door is built over 
the stoop, forming a little vestibule, and 
serving to keep out the gusts. 

One winter night, very cold and bluster- 
ing, Yudels was keeping the stage door. 
Having grown tired sitting in his cubby hole, 
he had emerged and planted his chair against 
the wall — of course with the familiar tilt and 
heel rest of all stage-doorkeepers. Yudels 
was smoking. On the wall just above his 
head was printed in four languages — Eng- 
lish, Italian, French, and German — “Smok- 

[ 15 ] 


SIGNORA 


ing Strictly Prohibited.” To professional 
smokers in the troupe it was like Dante’s 
warning to the souls approaching the Inferno: 

“ Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch entreate ” — 
“ All hope abandon, ye who enter here,” — 
which for the smoker may be freely trans- 
lated : “ All ‘weeds’ abandon, ye who enter 
here ! ” 

Yet Yudels was smoking. The big build- 
ing was full of inflammable material. 
Nothing seems to burn as fast as a theatre. 
Stage palaces, stage forests, even stage 
rocks blaze up like kindling wood. A spark 
might imperil a thousand lives. Yet Y udels 
was having a smoke ! — but it was a “ cold ” 
smoke. 

It was, however, just like Yudels to en- 
deavor to extract as much pleasure out of 
his cigar as if it were lighted. Taking it 
between two short, fat fingers (Yudels was 
a regular roly-poly), leaning back his head 
as far as the slant of the chair would permit, 
he would close his eyes and take a long pull 
at the cold weed. Then he would remove 
it from between his lips, purse them as if 

[ i6] 


SIGNORA 


he were emitting rings of smoke and open 
his eyes to follow with an expression of 
complete beatitude the upward course of 
the wreaths of bluish vapor, which existed 
only in his imagination. 

The smoker, who has no poetry in his 
soul, does not know what smoking is. He 
has remained untouched by its highest ec- 
stasies. The smoker with a soul sees the 
smoke, as it wreathes upward, assume the 
shapes of his ideals — the painter, trees, 
clouds, the sea ; the poet, a beautiful face ; 
while the musician hears trembling chords 
too delicate and too intermingled to fix 
themselves with definition upon the most 
sensitive ear. To Yudels, however, the 
imaginary wreaths, as he followed them with 
his eyes until they vanished in the shadows 
beyond the rays of the electric lamp, had a 
definite meaning. Always, after turning 
and twisting like cloud shapes on a windy 
day, they streaked themselves out into forms 
strangely like musical notes, and always the 
notes of those minor operatic rdles he had 
so longed to be heard in. For the nonce 

[ 17] 


SIGNORA 


he was lost in dreams of greatness he was 
never destined to achieve. There he sat 
dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. Then foot- 
steps outside — and the rude awakening to 
reality. 

:{: * Hi H: H: 

It was about seven o’clock. Most of the 
principals were already in their dressing- 
rooms. The small fry had not yet begun 
to arrive. Yudels had found time for one 
of his dreams of disappointed ambition. 
He was leaning back, his cigar, with its soft, 
munched end between his fingers, abstract- 
edly gazing upwards. Then he heard the 
storm-door open and fixed his eyes on the 
stage door ready to pass or challenge 
the arrival. Suddenly in the vestibule there 
was a low growl, followed by short, sharp 
barking. Yudels didn’t stir — he knew just 
what was happening. An accomplishment 
on which the Polish tenor, one of the most 
famous artists of the day, prided himself, 
was his perfect mimicry of animal sounds. 
Once before with his barking, he had caused 
Yudels to hurry out into the vestibule ; and 
[ 18] 


SIGNORA 


again by meowing like a cat. But he could 
not deceive the old chorus singer a third 
time. Finally, the barking stopped, the door 
opened and the great tenor, who usually had 
a friendly word for Yudels, strode past him 
with the merest nod. The great artist was 
piqued. He set much store by his powers 
of imitating animal sounds and his artistic 
amour propre was hurt that his ruse had 
not succeeded. Had Yudels run out to 
chase away the dog, the tenor would have 
been in good spirits all the evening. Yu- 
dels found grim enjoyment in this episode. 
He might be only an ex-chorus singer, who 
had been refused the satisfaction of singing 
a few minor rdles, but he succeeded in keep- 
ing a great tenor barking in a storm en- 
closure of a winter night. If he was a 
failure, so was the tenor. 

Fora few moments there was no interrup- 
tion and Yudels was again about relapsing 
into dreamland. But he heard light foot- 
steps, evidently a woman’s, outside, and the 
opening of the storm door. It remained 
open an unusual length of time — long enough 

[ 19] 


SIGNORA 


for a gust of wind to sweep around the storm 
enclosure and make the stage-door vibrate. 
Then the storm-door was closed, but no one 
entered the opera house. Instead, Yudels 
heard the light footsteps descend to the 
street. Some one had entered the storm 
enclosure, lingered there a few moments and 
then gone. What had that person wanted 
there? Whoever it had been was out of 
sight. Yet a sudden impulse prompted 
Yudels to unperch his heels, bring his chair 
down with a smart bang, rise to his feet and 
start towards the stage door with the inten- 
tion of looking into the street. But he got 
no further than the stage door. For when 
he opened it, he saw right at his feet, a small 
bundle carefully done up in a gray shawl. 

Yudels could never explain just why he 
suppressed his first impulse to toss the bun- 
dle into the street ; or why, when he decided 
to bring it in, instead of grabbing one end 
and dragging it in after him, he slid both 
hands under it, carried it carefully into the 
passageway with him and seating himself, 
this time with all four legs of the chair 
[ 20 ] 


SIGNORA 


resting on the ground, laid it carefully across 
his lap. Then he felt at it gingerly with his 
hands. There was something beneath the 
soft folds of the shawl, but just what he 
could not tell. The better to open the 
bundle, he got out of the chair, laid the bun- 
dle on the seat and, kneeling on the floor 
before it, began undoing the ends which 
were fastened up with safety pins. Yudels 
being a man, knew nothing about the art of 
doing up bundles, but this one seemed to 
him to be done up with great, in fact, with 
almost loving care. Every fold was creased 
and even. 

He threw back the ends, the sides, and 
there remained only two overlapping layers 
of shawl. These he cautiously lifted and 
drew aside. Before his astonished eyes lay 
a sweet, clean, pure, girl baby, its head a 
little turned to one side, its thumb in its 
mouth, and sound asleep. 

I will not assert that Yudels had never 
seen a baby. Few persons can claim such 
distinction or such immunity. Certain it is, 
however, Yudels had never been in such 
[ 21 ] 


SIGNORA 


proximity to one as at that moment. Nat- 
urally he was slightly flustered, for although 
Yudels had made himself useful in innumer- 
able capacities, he never yet had figured as 
an infant’s nurse, let alone a mother. Had 
the wee girl, with whom he had been so sud- 
denly confronted, awakened at that moment 
and set up a howl, he must certainly have 
retired precipitately. But she looked so 
soft and pretty and at the same time so help- 
less, that his first surprise, not to say alarm, 
changed to pity, and he looked tenderly 
down at the little creature that had been 
left in his charge so unceremoniously. 

Even while he was looking, the baby 
turned her head, and the next thing Yudels 
saw two large brown eyes were gazing up at 
him. She did not seem in the least afraid 
of him and in a moment was smiling at him 
in the most confiding mannen Just about 
that time Yudels felt a little warm hand clos- 
ing around his chunky thumb. It was as if 
the child realized it had been deserted and 
was clinging to him for protection. At that 
moment all the bitterness of disappointment 
[ 22 } 


SIGNORA 


was swept out of Yudel’s nature. He even 
forgot about Ruiz and the Messagiero, 
Was not here a little messagiero sent to him 
as if from heaven ? A feeling of infinite 
tenderness took possession of him. He 
felt like taking up the child in his arms and 
devouring her with kisses. Who knows but 
that he would have done so had not the little 
fingers relaxed, the eyes closed and the smile 
grown fainter as the baby again drifted over 
the river of sleep toward the island of dreams. 


[23] 


Ill 



UDELS lifted the burden, chair 
and all, into his cubby hole. Then he 
seated himself on one of the arms of the 
chair and looked down at the face of the 
little sleeper. 

Something new, something strange, yet 
something sweet and delightful had crept 
into his life, and then and there he made up 
his mind that never should it creep out again. 
Hardly ten minutes had passed since he had 
first laid eyes on the baby, yet he felt as 
strong a claim of proprietorship in her as if 
she had been his own. Marvellous power 
of babyhood ! Weak and impotent to defend 
itself, what, more than a babe, would seem 
the world’s prey? Yet its very weakness 
inspires the pity and its very helplessness 

[ 24 ] 


SIGNORA 


the love, which are its strength and make 
the world its champion. There lay Yudels’ 
baby girl — its lips, its eyelids, trembling ever 
and anon like rose leaves kissed by a zephyr. 
Asleep she had been deserted ; she had 
awakened and her eyes had rested on a new 
protector and she had promptly fallen asleep 
again. Which is the more blessed — a baby 
or the way it sleeps ? 

Yudels paced up and down the hall — 
probably the first time a stage doorkeeper 
was ever known not to be in his chair and 
in the position established by tradition. 
But Yudels was satisfied, for the baby had 
the chair, and where babies are concerned 
all others yield gracefully. 

Again there were footsteps without. The 
storm door and the stage door were opened 
and a woman chorus singer entered. She 
stood in mute surprise when she saw Yudels, 
a stage doorkeeper, standing up. Her 
expression changed to amazement when he 
quickly raised a finger to his lips with a 
warning ‘‘ pst, pst ! ” while he tiptoed toward 
her and, reaching her, laid a restraining 

[25 ] 


SIGNORA 


hand on her arm as if to caution her against 
making a sound. Then he led her gently 
to the cubby hole and showed her the baby 
asleep on a chair. 

She was a kindly old soul — most chorus 
women are old, but all are not kindly — so 
she leaned over the wee morsel and kissed 
her. “ Cara bambina ! povera bambinaccia ! ” 
she gently murmured as she gazed at her 
tenderly. Then she walked pianissimo, on 
tiptoe — as if afraid of wakening the child 
— down the passageway and disappeared 
through the iron door which leads to the 
main part of the opera house. This little 
scene was repeated with variations by every 
fresh arrival. 

By and by the stage door remained closed. 
The whole company had arrived. There 
were certain sounds — carriage wheels driv- 
ing up, muffled orders from the stage, where 
the “ grips ” were putting the last pieces of 
“ scenery ” into place, and the faint squeak- 
ing and squawking of the orchestra which 
was tuning up — by which Yudels knew that 
the performance was about to begin. Then 
[26] 


SIGNORA 


he heard the crisp, dapper, little march with 
which the opera begins — they were giving 
“ Carmen ” — and then the chorus, then the 
action on the stage and the gust of applause 
which greeted the great French prima donna, 
who as Carmen had no rival. “ Amour 
Mysterieuse,” she was singing the famous 
“ Habanera,” as no one else could ; — and so 
Yudels followed the first act ; for although 
most of the music did not penetrate as far 
as the passage to the stage door, he was so 
familiar with it, that what he did not actually 
hear, he heard in his imagination. More- 
over, he was such an old hand at opera that 
he could feel something magnetic in the air 
which told him that the performance was 
passing off with more than usual snap and 
dash. 

Ordinarily, he would have been vastly an- 
noyed to be obliged to keep the door on 
Carmen ” night, especially when the Car- 
men was unusually tricky and devilish. 
For he adored the opera, and the French 
prima donna was one of his greatest divin- 
ities and, anyhow, he did not want this duty 
[27] 


SIGNORA 


except on Wagner night. But the baby! 
As he watched her, he felt that a special 
providence had assigned him to the stage 
door that night. 

Evidently the story of Yudels and the 
baby was passed around behind the scenes. 
For after the first act, a white-clad, felt-slip- 
pered “ grip ” came to Yudels with a message 
that the prima donna would like to see the 
baby in her dressing-room and would “ Sig- 
nor Yudels be so very kind as to bring her ? ” 
“Signor’* Yudels would. Who wouldn’t 
obey such an invitation from the tyrant of 
the operatic world, the prima donna ? 

The baby still was sleeping when he took 
her, nor did the hubbub on the stage, as he 
crossed it, awaken her. In the middle of 
the “ first entrance ” and with his back 
almost against the curtain, stood the stage 
manager shouting stage directions, occasion- 
ally emphasizing them by clapping his hands. 
“ Lower that drop a little more. Bring 
those benches further down. What’s that 
orange tree doing over there ? This ain’t 
no roof garden. Shove that old swan into 
[28] 


SIGNORA 

I a corner; we’re not giving ‘Lohengrin.’ 
Can’t you give ’em more light up in the 
flies ? ” Meanwhile the grips, clad in white 
jumpers and slippered like the one who had 
brought the prima donna’s message to 
Yudels, were running noiselessly hither and 
thither, shifting on the side wall of the 
tavern of Lillas-Pastia, and shoving off sec- 
tions of the bridge over which Carmen had 
made her appearance in the first act, while 
there was creaking of pulleys above as a 
considerable portion of the city of Seville 
was raised skywards by the “ hands ” in the 
fly galleries, three or four of them to a rope, 
like the crew of a merchantman hauling in 
the mainsheet, without the familiar “ Hoy- 
ee-oy.” All seemed confusion. But the 
initiated knew that everything was proceed- 
ing along the regular lines. They were 
“striking” one scene and setting another 
and would be ready on time. Some Span- 
ish smugglers and gypsies were strolling 
across the stage without fear of colliding 
with the departing town or coming tavern. 
They eyed Yudels interestedly as he crossed 
[29] 


SIGNORA 


over toward the door or rather the stage 
door of the prima donna’s dressing-room. 
For there were two doors to this room which 
was never occupied by any one save by the 
prima donna of the evening. There might 
be two or three prima donnas in one per- 
formance — as in ‘‘ Don Giovanni.” But the 
one who had that dressing-room, was the 
one who headed the list — and the salary list 
as well — the queen of them all. 

The two doors were a tribute to this fact. 
One of them led to the hall on which all 
the other dressing-rooms on the same floor 
opened, the other directly on the stage. 
Yet it looked like anything but the entrance 
to a diva’s room. It was a prosaic gap in 
the brick wall reaching as high as the first 
fly gallery, and bare save for scenery that 
was piled against it, some of it with the 
painted side out, trees, cliffs, dungeons, pal- 
aces — some showing only the framing and 
bare canvas of the back. 

There were three short steps to the door. 
On one side stood a set of shelves full 
of hammers, gimlets, screwdrivers, nails, 
[ 30 ] 


SIGNORA 


screws, staples — anything that might be 
needed for effecting immediate repairs. In 
the corner between the steps and wall on 
the other side were some spears, arquebuses, 
swords and other weapons and a pile of 
helmets placed on the floor, all left there 
temporarily before being taken upstairs and 
put away in the armory. From the aspect 
of these surroundings one expected to enter 
a lumber room instead of a prima donna’s 
dressing-room. Nor was the scene on 
entering like that which a song queen’s fer- 
vent admirers, who had seen her in all her 
glory on the stage, would imagine. 

There was nothing on the walls save a 
mirror and some hooks. A lounge, a few 
chairs, and a small table in front of the 
mirror, made up the furniture. There was 
no suggestion of luxury, hardly of comfort. 
At the table in front of the mirror and in 
full glare of the electric lamps, which made 
the plainness of the room all the more appar- 
ent, sat the great prima donna — a Carmen 
with a grey shawl thrown over her shoulders 
to guard against draughts, while her maid 

[ 31 ] 


SIGNORA 


was touching up her eyebrows with a stick 
of grease paint. 

The great singer had evidently sent out a 
general alarm that the baby was coming. 
For waiting in her dressing-room were — 
the Polish tenor, who was the Don Jose of 
the evening ; his brother, who was a famous 
basso ; and a German mezzo, who, although 
she sang forbidding rdles like “ Ortrud, ” 
had been married three times and was the 
mother of eight children, to whom she was 
devotedly attached. It was she who had 
described opera as “dee exciting life !” add- 
ing, “ First you sing Wagner, den you have 
a baby. Den you sing Wagner again, und 
den you have annuder baby, and so eet goes. 
Oh, eet ees dee exciting life ! ” One of her 
children was born in this country and bore 
the name of George Washington Mannheim- 
Weink, yet had managed to survive and was 
enjoying good health. Neither basso nor 
mezzo were in the night’s performance, but 
like moths around the flame, they could not 
keep away from the opera house. 

A little later in came the Escamillo, a little 

[ 32 ] 


SIGNORA 

Italian baritone, an excellent and useful 
artist, whose capabilities ranged from the 
Toreador in “ Carmen,” to comic rdles like 
Figaro in the ‘‘ Barber of Seville.” When 
you saw him approaching, you never were 
sure whether he was going to wave a red sash 
at you, as though you were a bull, and shout 
“Toreador, attentio ! ” or suddenly break 
into mincing steps and spout, “ Figaro ! 
Figaro ! ” On ordinary occasions, when 
he was not on the stage and in costume, 
he was a fierce-looking little individual. 
He owed this fierce appearance chiefly to 
his bristling moustachios, which were not 
unlike a prickly hedge. Altogether, he 
seemed like the last person in the world to 
ask to see a baby, but really he was quite 
harmless. He had a perfect passion for 
macaroni — so intense that he kept in his 
dressing-room a small hand machine for 
manufacturing it, and a spirit lamp and pot 
for cooking it — apparatus which he carried 
with him when the company went on tour. 
A jar of grated parmesan cheese also 
belonged to the outfit. Yudels would have 
[ 33 ] 


SIGNORA 


liked to deposit the baby in the German 
mezzo s arms. He was confident from her 
experience with “ dee exciting life” that she 
would not drop it. But the prima donna 
was there and with true operatic instinct, he 
placed the burden in her lap. The prima 
donna was a very beautiful woman, but of 
the beaut 4 de diable type. Yet as she 
inclined her head over the baby, the group 
of singers meanwhile closing around her, a 
look of real tenderness came into those eyes 
that usually flashed with the fire of unbridled 
passion or hatred. 

There were a few moments of absorbed 
silence. Then the German mezzo asked 
Yudels this practical question: — ‘‘Vat are 
you going to geeve her to eat ? ” At this, 
the little Italian baritone began smoothing 
down the bristles of his moustachios so as to 
make himself look as affable as possible and 
took a step forward with the air of one who 
is trying to look pleasant because about to 
give important advice which he desires to 
have received with favor. Just at that mo- 
ment, however, the giant basso — who knew 
[ 34 ] 


SIGNORA 


nothing at all about babies — suggested 
koumiss, adding, “You know it already has 
been digested.” 

“ By whom ? ” asked the little Italian bar- 
itone fiercely, his moustachios bristling up 
again. “ By whom has it been digested?” 
and he allowed a ferocious look to travel 
from one to the other, until it rested upon 
the offending basso, who, as good-natured 
as he was big, looked slightly alarmed. Re- 
ceiving no answer the baritone smoothed 
down his bristles again, and, having resumed 
a more affable appearance, said in his most 
pleasant manner : “ There is nothing that 
can be better for her than macaroni,” and 
then withdrew to his dressing-room to man- 
ufacture some, happy in the thought that he 
had had the grace, the self-sacrificing spirit 
to throw off his fierce appearance, on which, 
like most small men, he greatly prided him- 
self, in the combined cause of the baby and 
macaroni. 

A few minutes later and the baby opened 
her eyes, and seeing the beautiful face in- 
clined over her, broke into the sweetest 

[35] 


SIGNORA 


imaginable smile. Thereupon, every one in 
the room smiled in sympathy. The Ger- 
man prima donna’s smile was most expan- 
sive and maternal — it had beamed thousands 
of times upon eight of her own. As for the 
big tenor and basso, ‘‘Jean” and “Edou- 
ard,” they stood side by side, each with a 
hand resting fondly on the other’s shoulder, 
with heads slightly cocked up, eyes raised 
heavenward, and lips wearing a seraphic 
expression, so that the two great singers 
looked like Raphael’s cherubs, full length 
and grown up. 

Suddenly, however, this blissful state of 
affairs was rudely interrupted. The baby 
slightly raised herself, screwed up her face 
until her eyes almost closed, her forehead 
wrinkled, and the tip of her nose threatened 
to come in contact with her upper lip. 
Then every feature quivered — and she 
sneezed. Universal consternation ! The 
prima donna hastily drew the baby’s shawl 
closer, and, reaching down, gathered up the 
crimson skirt of Carmen’s first act costume 
and threw ft over the child. Basso and 

[36] 


SIGNORA 


tenor, just like men, just looked alarmed. 
The German prima donna had the presence 
of mind to touch a button which rang a bell 
in the box office, and when the answer came, 
to call through the tube : “ Send dee doctor, 
not dee young doctor who saws dee bones 
out of dee noses. Dee old doctor !” 

An irreverent call boy, who from the 
door had been watching the proceedings, 
surreptitiously scribbled something on a 
piece of paper, pinned it to the lintel, gave 
a leer, and scooted. This is what he had 
written : “ Owing to the sudden indisposi- 
tion of Signora who has caught a sudden 

cold, she will not be able to sing this even- 
ing. Persons wishing to have their money 
refunded may apply to the box office.” 

Don Jose put his hand to his sabre hilt, 
as if he would like to pursue the boy and 
kill him, the basso raised his hand in ma- 
jestic wrath, the mezzo scowled more darkly 
than she ever had as Ortrud, while Carmen 
sighed impatiently. 

“ Dee old doctor,” for whom they had 
sent, was not the famous specialist, but 

[37] 


SIGNORA 


another physician on the opera-house staff. 
The famous specialist had a mania for re- 
moving part of the nasal bone at the slight- 
est provocation. Early in his career he 
made up his mind that to succeed, a phy- 
sician must be different from other phy- 
sicians. No matter what, he must do some- 
thing to impress the patient. If a singer 
came to consult him, should he simply spray 
and douche him ? By no means. Other 
physicians could do that. But discover an 
enlargement of the nasal bone and inform 
the patient it would be necessary to partly 
remove it ! People like nothing better than 
to feel that there is something serious the 
matter with them — so long as it does not 
hurt — or to talk about some operation they 
have undergone. Of course, the young 
specialist soon became famous and built up 
an enormous practice. It is true some peo- 
ple would have preferred to have kept their 
bones — even their nasal ones — intact. But 
that made no difference. He was a famous 
specialist, and if you went to him you left a 
part of your nose behind you before you 
[38] 


SIGNORA 


were allowed to depart. Was it a wonder, 
therefore, that when the baby sneezed the 
elder physician of the opera-house staff was 
sent for? True, he was not quite so famous ; 
but, then, he could cure a cold without saw- 
ing off part of your nasal bone. 

The physician was not long in coming. 
He had been preceded by the manager — a 
small man, quick in his motions, with rest- 
less eyes, and a worried expression as if he 
were thinking of the repertoire a month 
ahead — trying to avoid giving “Faust” 
three times and “ Carmen ” once one week 
and “Faust” once and “Carmen” three 
times the next. When he heard that the 
physician had been summoned he had 
hastened behind the scenes with forebodings 
of a sudden change in the cast being neces- 
sitated. Seeing it was only a baby he was 
too relieved to be surprised. 

The physician heard the alarming occur- 
rence described in several languages simul- 
taneously. He smiled, looked at the baby 
and said: “There is nothing the matter 
with her.” 


[39] 


SIGNORA 


“ Nothing the matter with her !” they ex- 
claimed. “ But she sneezed ! ” 

‘‘She is perfectly well,” the physician re- 
peated. 

“ But when we sneeze,” said the prima 
donna, who was the first to recover from 
her astonishment, “ we are very ill. We are 
sprayed and cauterized and done up in cot- 
ton wool.” 

“True. When sneeze you are very 
ill and the audience steps up to the box 
office and demands its money back. But 
she is not.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” exclaimed the tenor and 
the basso in unison. “ Dio mio ! ” echoed 
some Italian chorus singers who had gath- 
ered in the hall. “ Mein Gott ! ” cried the 
German mezzo in a voice like a church 
organ. The prima donna still looked in- 
credulous, while the Polish tenor took down 
from the door the notice the mischievous 
call boy had pinned up and carefully put the 
pin in the cushion. (Opera singers are 
either recklessly extravagant or proverbially 


[ 40 ] 


SIGNORA 


frugal.) “ I predict she will never disap- 
point an audience,” he prophesied. 

The manager had said nothing up to this 
point. “Not ill when she sneezes?” he 
asked. “No postponements? No money 
paid back ? I will engage her at once.” 

“ Now that you have engaged her, what 
name will you put on the programme?” 
asked the practical German mezzo. 

The manager shrugged his shoulders, 
then he picked up the notice the tenor had 
taken down. 

“ It is ‘Signora ’ How shall we fill 

the blank ? ” 

“ Don’t fill it out at all,” protested the 
prima donna. “ She has come to us with- 
out any name. Leave it blank. Let us 
just call her ‘Signora.’ She is Signora. 
It is very pretty.” 

Whether it was that the baby grew 
tired of the light or suddenly realized that 
it was surrounded by strange faces, it 
pursed up its little lips, screwed up its wee 
nose, twittered its eyelids, and began to 
cry. 


[41 ] 


SIGNORA 


Shall we send for the doctor again ? ” 
asked the basso. 

‘‘ Perhaps she would like to have me 
bark,” suggested the great tenor. “Or do 
you think she would be more pleased if I 
meowed ? ” 

But the prima donna on whose lap she 
lay, closed her arms around her, began 
swaying gently to and fro and started up 
the pretty French lullaby — “ Dors, Dors 
mon Enfant.” 

The previous week she had declined an 
offer of a thousand dollars to sing that very 
lullaby and a few other songs at a private 
house. 

Suddenly a new strain was added to the 
song. The basso, who was a brother of the 
tenor and as great an artist — and physically 
even a little broader and taller, a giant 
among men as among singers — had like his 
brother a fad. He was capital at imitating 
the sounds of various instruments, at the 
same time assuming the player’s pose. No 
sooner had the prima donna begun the lul- 
laby, then he squared himself off, seemed to 

[ 42 ] 


SIGNORA 


place an imaginary ’cello between his knees 
and to draw a bow over the imaginary strings 
with the graceful wrist movement of an ac- 
complished ’cellist. From his lips, mean- 
while, there issued a lovely ’cello obligato, 
a strain which harmonized perfectly with the 
lullaby and infinitely added to its beauty. 
He kept it on the high notes with a weird 
effect, like that of the chirping of a myriad 
of insects in a forest of a warm summer 
night. This was a signal for all ; and soon 
the Polish tenor, the German mezzo and 
the other artists in the room had added 
their voices to the prima donna’s — softly, of 
course, so that they produced a marvellously 
rich pianissimo effect. 

The little Italian baritone entered with a 
grin and a plate of steaming hot macaroni. 
A glance and he deposited the plate on a 
table and joined with the rest. 

The call boy was going along the row of 
dressing-rooms above, shouting : “Ten 
minutes ! Ten minutes ! Ten minutes !” at 
each door, giving that much warning to 
prepare for the curtain. He could be heard 

[43] 


SIGNORA 


half running, half sliding downstairs. But 
when he poked his head in at the prima 
donna’s door, the call died on his lips and 
he viewed the scene and listened in amaze- 
ment. 

What a wonderful proceeding in this lit- 
tle box of a dressing-room ! Here were 
the greatest singers of their time — artists of 
genius — doing, as a matter of course, for a 
wee baby girl, what others would have had 
to pay a fortune for. In fact, the manager, 
who had been looking on silently but inter- 
estedly, had figured out that it would have 
cost him fifteen thousand dollars to have 
put that baby to sleep. 

‘‘May I have my Signora now?” asked 
Yudels at last. Gently the prima donna 
deposited the wee girl in his arms and kissed 
her ; and, through a lane of opera singers, 
who in a few moments would be swaying a 
great audience, the calmly sleeping baby 
was carried out. 


[ 44 ] 


IV 



news travels ? It seems as if each air particle 
took it up and passed it on until the whole 
atmosphere is permeated with it. 

Only a few minutes had passed since the 
prima donna in her dressing-room had sug- 
gested calling the baby Signora. Yet as 
Yudels bore her across the stage, the stage 
manager raised his hand to check the men 
at work, as if he feared they might awaken 
the baby, and in a stage whisper called out, 
“Signora!” There was a sudden hush. 
The entrance to the Plaza del Toro, which 
was being shoved off, suddenly became sta- 
tionary near the orange stand. Two houses 
of the city of Seviglia, remained dangling 
in mid-air, like long, loosely jointed legs. 
The moment Yudels had crossed the stage, 
[45 ] 


SIGNORA 


work was resumed. The entrance was 
pushed up against the wall and the houses 
disappeared amid the borders. Signora was 
out of hearing. All was well. Yudels car- 
ried back the baby to the basket in the 
cubby hole and, tipping back on his chair, 
fell to thinking what a blessed little compan- 
ion he would have in his abode under the 
roof of the opera house. 

Probably no queerer dwelling than his 
was to be found. Its approaches were more 
difficult than those of a mediaeval castle. 
Two long flights of stairs brought you to 
the second fly gallery. From there an iron 
ladder led to the third, and from there 
another iron ladder to the fourth which was 
about as high again above the stage as the 
proscenium arch. Reaching across from 
here to the other side of the house was the 
“gridiron,” the net work of iron girders, 
wheels and drums, over which passed the 
innumerable ropes for hoisting the scenes 
which were handled by the men on the first 
fly gallery. Here too, was the “ rabbit 
hutch,” an arrangement of sloping shelves 
[46] 


SIGNORA 


from which, when a prolonged peal of thun- 
der was required, cannon balls were dropped 
into a long zinc-lined trough, down which 
they rolled with many reverberations. 
Right alongside the rabbit hutch ” was the 
narrow iron door which led to Yudels’ apart- 
ment — two little rooms and a kitchen. To 
that solitary height he climbed every night, 
sometimes pausing at the rail to look into 
the depths of darkness beneath, where, but 
a short time before everything had been 
flooded with light. With the curtain down, 
the stage was so absolutely shut off from 
the rest of the world that it seemed as if a 
chunk of darkness, just large enough to fill 
the space from floor to gridiron, had been 
carved out of the night and set down in the 
opera house. The faintest ray, just enough 
to guide him like a star during his long climb, 
issued through the keyhole of the door of 
his apartment ; also it gave just enough light 
to enable him to see the darkness and make 
its vastness more impressive. 

As Yudels was sitting near the stage 
entrance, he suddenly began asking himself 
[ 47 ] 


SIGNORA 


how would he ever get Signora safely up 
to his eyrie. It would be nothing to 
carry her up the two flights of stairs, how- 
ever long and steep they were, but the two 
iron ladders — they would require skill. 
Could he go up with her in one arm while 
the hand of the other grasped the rungs ; 
should he attempt to carry her on his back ; 
or, had she best be lashed fast to him ? 

He was ruminating over these various 
aspects, when certain sounds told him that 
the performance was over. He heard a gust 
of applause, then a shuffling of feet up the 
stairways, and overhead the chorus hurrying 
to their dressing-rooms — a shoving of 
objects about the stage — the “striking” of 
the scene and gathering up of “props” — 
and carriage calls on the street, followed by 
the rumbling of wheels. 

Usually the company went out as it ar- 
rived, in driblets. There were some whose 
duties were over before the end of the opera 
itself and these were the soonest away. In 
“ Lohengrin,” for instance, Telramund is 
killed in the first scene of the last act and a 
[48] 


SIGNORA 


lay figure is placed on the litter, on which his 
supposed corpse is borne into the King’s 
presence. Long before the final curtain, 
the little Italian baritone had time to cook 
himself a dish of macaroni, devour it, and 
pass out of the opera house. In Carmen,” 
Michaela does not come on after the third 
act, and she, too, usually left the house 
before the opera was over ; but on this 
night, when Yudels heard the sounds which 
denoted the end of the performance, he 
suddenly realized that no one as yet had 
gone. He had been too busy worrying 
how to manage Signora’s four-story ascent 
by way of two iron ladders, to notice any- 
thing unusual. But even now the curtain 
had been down long enough for the shuf- 
fling overhead and the shoving on the stage 
to have subsided, the iron door at the end 
of the passageway grimly remained closed. 
What had happened ? 

Just then the door was opened. The 
basso held it back. Through the doorway 
came the prima donna, followed by Jean, 
who carried a large papier-mache bowl 

[49] 


SIGNORA 


decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphics — a 
sacrificial vessel used in the temple scene in 
“ Aida.” In the space back of the doorway, 
Yudels could see the whole company, massed 
like a flood, checked by a narrow gorge, 
The tenor took his place by the prima 
donna next to the stage door and held up 
the bowl. “ For her layette ! For Sig- 
nora ! ” said the prima donna, as she dropped 
a gold piece into the bowl. “ Pour Sig- 
nora ! ” exclaimed the tenor as he did likewise. 
“ Fiir Signora ! ” reverberated through the 
passageway as the German mezzo advanced, 
dropped her contribution into the bowl, and 
passed out. “ Per Signora ! ” and the Italian 
baritone had followed. Thus the prin- 
cipals first and then the chorus, the ballet, 
the “extra ladies,” and the supers, filed 
past the prima donna and the tenor, each 
contributing his or her mite. When the 
last one had gone out and Jean put the 
bowl down on the floor, his arms were ach- 
ing from the weight of the coin. The 
prima donna threw a beautiful Spanish lace 
shawl over the baby’s basket as she held out 

[ 50 ] 


SIGNORA 


her hand to Yudels, saying, “ Whenever you 
want anything for Signora let me know/' 
Yudels seized her hand, as he had seen 
tenors do to stage queens, and pressed a kiss 
upon it. Also, he inwardly made up his 
mind that if ever again the tenor barked or 
meowed in the stage-door vestibule, he 
would gratify his whim by going out and 
making believe he was looking for the dog 
or cat. 

When they had gone, Yudels took the 
chair and walked with it toward the iron 
door. H e intended placing the chair against 
it to keep it open so that he could carry the 
baby in her basket through the doorway. 
The bowl of money would be safe in the 
‘‘ property ” room just off the stage. 

Just at this moment, as if anticipating 
what Yudels would be obliged to do, one of 
the stage hands, who apparently had some 
work to do before leaving, opened the door 
and held it back for him. Then when 
Yudels with Signora had passed through, 
he took up the bowl and carried it to the 
property-room. “ The boss wants to see 
[ 51 ] 


SIGNORA 


you,” he called after Yudels. The “boss” 
was the boss stage carpenter. The stage 
had been “ struck ” long since, but he and a 
couple of other stage hands, besides the one 
who had held the door back for Yudels, 
were waiting. 

“ How are you ever going to carry Sig- 
nora up there ? ” asked the boss, with an up- 
ward turn of the head toward the fourth fly 
gallery, some one hundred and fifty feet 
above. “ Now we fellers are going to chip 
into that money bowl all right enough to 
get her a ‘ lay out * or whatever you call it, 
but we done something better for her right 
here now. Come along.” 

All the lights on the side where Yudels* 
rooms were located, were burning brightly 
and, as the “ boss ” pointed upwards, Yudels 
saw that he and his men had rigged a pul- 
ley to one of the gridiron girders, and that 
a rope with four ends spliced to it was ready 
to be passed under a basket, so that Signora 
could be hoisted gently up to her new nest. 

Magic charm of babyhood ! Here were 
a group of men, rough spoken maybe, and 

[ 52 ] 


SIGNORA 


bearing no marks of rennement. Yet who 
could with more delicate intuition have per- 
ceived just what must be troubling Yudels’ 
mind, and devised the means of relieving it? 
Surely, nothing brings out so fully whatever 
of soul there may be in human kind, as a 
little child. And so Signora, peacefully 
sleeping, made her first trip through the 
air, past painted turrets, tree-tops, and clouds, 
to her new abode. 

When Yudels had safely lifted the basket 
with its precious burden over the rail and 
carried it into the apartment, he again 
stepped out on to the gallery. It seemed as 
if he must have space to think, so much had 
happened through that one soul coming into 
his life. All the lights below had been 
turned off. Only the one electric lamp in 
his own apartment sent its rays through the 
narrow, open doorway, until the darkness 
seemed to swallow them up. But gradually 
his eyes became used to the blackness — or 
was it his intense thought that enabled him 
to penetrate it and begin to see things as- 
suming shape beyond. Suspended from the 

[53] 


SIGNORA 


gridiron, he discerned the dim outline of a 
rocky mountain top. It was the drop 
for one of the scenes in Die Walkure.” 
Arching and overhanging rocks and de- 
tached boulders, wind-twisted pines and 
threatening storm clouds began to loom at 
the end of that dark vista. The whole 
space below him, a plunge of nearly two 
hundred feet, was black. 

A strange feeling crept over him. The 
scene became startlingly real. He seemed 
to be standing at night on top of a deep 
mountain gorge looking into the abyss. A 
sudden fear seized him. What if some day 
Signora should walk too near the edge of 
the gallery, slip and fall over beneath the 
rail ? Straightway he descended the two 
iron ladders and the long stairs to the stage, 
switched on some of the lights, got some 
strips of wood and a hammer and nails out 
of the carpenter’s shop, and climbing again 
to the gallery, high among the canvas moun- 
tains, nailed the protecting strips along the 
posts, which supported the rail. Dear Yu- 
dels ! He had not stopped to think that it 
[ 54 ] 


SIGNORA 


would be months before the baby would be 
able to toddle, let alone walk. He had 
realized that at some time there might be 
some danger for her, and, though it was 
long after midnight, he had descended 
through the darkness and awakened the 
echoes of the empty, silent house, rather 
than have the danger remain unguarded 
against if only until morning. But the fund 
for the “ lay out,” the foresight of a master 
machinist, and Yudels’ own tender apprehen- 
sion were only the beginnings of what was 
done for Signora in the opera house. 

In fact, the next morning Yudels had 
hardly slept himself out before he heard the 
pulley ropes thumping against the rail — a 
signal to lower the basket. When he 
hauled it up, it was full of packages — all 
kinds of artificial food for infants, cans of 
condensed milk and the like, while perched 
on top of all was a package of macaroni, 
addressed in the hand of the little Italian 
baritone, who also sent a note, giving full 
directions how it should be prepared. A 
little later there came, also via the basket, 

[55] 


SIGNORA 


a message from the German mezzo, saying 
she would give him a lesson in how to be a 
mother. Should she come up or would he 
send the little darling down in a basket ? 

Should she come up ? Of course she did 
not know what she was proposing. The 
idea of a prima donna mounting two flights 
of stairs to say nothing of climbing two Iron 
ladders ! Yudels with his conventional prima 
donna worship would have collapsed with 
amazement had he not realized, through 
his own love for Signora, which had devel- 
oped with a swiftness like magic, what peo- 
ple will do for a helpless child. However, 
the message came in very good time, for 
Signora was becoming restless and evidently 
was about to wake up. So he lifted her 
into the basket and sent her down, himself 
following. 

While the baby’s toilet was making and 
her bottle preparing, Yudels looked on in a 
helpless, hopeless way. For the first time 
he felt that he was useless — that there was 
nothing available for the crisis, even in the 
depths of his capacious coat pocket. He 
[ 56] 


SIGNORA 


might have aspired to the rdle of Ruiz and 
even to that of the Messagiero, but to dress 
and feed a baby — that was too evidently be- 
yond him. The German prima donna had 
anticipated this. There were in the opera 
house about a dozen chore women, whose 
work was to sweep, dust and otherwise clean 
the vast auditorium. Through the mysteri- 
ous twilight which prevailed there during 
the day, you could see them, some of them 
far up the slope of the family circle like 
evening figures on a hillside, slowly making 
their way between the rows of seats. The 
German mezzo had summoned several of 
these and had arranged, even before Yudels 
had received the message from her, that 
every morning he should send Signora down 
in the basket and that one and another of 
the women would see to the rest. The 
suggestion was so practicable that Yudels 
acquiesced, though he had a constitutional 
dislike to any one who did not belong 
strictly behind the scenes. 

Certainly Signora grew up to belong 
there. Every day she made several trips 
[ 57 ] 


SIGNORA 


through the air in her basket. Sometimes 
it was to visit the garderobiere. At others 
it was the property master or the women 
who made paper stage flowers or cut paper 
leaves for various species of stage trees, 
who wanted a visit from her. If there was 
a matinee the singers were sure to send for 
her and she would be taken to the prima 
donna’s dressing-room where she received 
in state. The boss carpenter had con- 
structed a truck on which the basket could 
be placed so that it was an approach to a 
baby carriage. 

Sometimes in the evening, when Signora 
seemed restless and Yudels was afraid to 
leave her upstairs, he would place her in 
the wings from where she could look out 
upon the lighted stage and where he could 
keep an eye upon her. It was amusing to 
watch her blink at the footlights or 
straighten herself up when an especially 
loud gust of music swept up from the 
orchestra. Nothing frightened her, not 
even a hurried exit of the chorus when the 
singers surged by to get to their dressing- 

[58] 


SIGNORA 


rooms as quickly as possible. For all were 
careful not to bump into her, and in spite 
of their hurry, most of them had a quick 
smile for her as they scurried past. She 
never cried, indeed, scarcely ever made a 
sound while a performance was in progress. 
Her eyes were either on the stage or star- 
ing at a sign on the wall — “ Avisso Impor- 
tante ” with “ Silencio ” in great big letters. 
Intuitively she seemed to know it was a 
warning to keep quiet. 

Then there was the bewigged, bepow- 
dered and silk-stockinged flunkey whose 
duty it was to raise the sliding door in the 
proscenium through which the singers went 
to acknowledge their calls before the cur- 
tain. She was not long in making a friend 
of him and he enjoyed taking her up in his 
arms and letting her look through the peep- 
hole at the audience and the orchestra. 
She could watch the sea of faces and next 
gaze in an awestruck way at the orchestra 
leader. Then she would regard with great 
intentness, a double bass player in the cor- 
ner of the orchestra nearest the peephole. 
[ 59 ] 


SIGNORA 


She would watch him very solemnly until 
his fingers sprawled over the thick strings 
like spider’s legs, when she would look up 
into Flunkey’s face and laugh. 

Yudels was obliged to answer so many 
questions regarding Signora that he began 
issuing a daily bulletin in four languages. 
This he tacked up in the wings every even- 
ing before the performance. At first it was 
just a sheet of paper. Then the boss car- 
penter had a board put up. On it the 
scenic artist painted a classical portico. 
The plinth bore in plain Roman lettering 
the inscription 

— Bolettino Della Signora — 
and in the space between the columns 
Yudels posted his bulletins. “Signora’s 
first tooth is coming through. She is begin- 
ning to creep.” 

It was the only unofficial board allowed 
to be put up in the opera house, and it 
attracted as much attention as the rehearsal 
calls and casts tacked up at the stage door 
and in the dressing-rooms. 

The whole company, however, knew that 
[6o] 


SIGNORA 


Signora could walk, even before that interest- 
ing fact was chronicled on the board. She 
herself made it known in rather a startling 
way during a matinee performance of 

Faust.” On this occasion she had as usual 
been watching with wide open eyes the 
‘‘property men,” engaged in sticking long 
stemmed paper flowers into the papier- 
mache bed used in the garden scene. Gen- 
erally there was a flower or two left over 
and the men gave them to Signora to play 
with during the scene. But this afternoon 
there were only just enough and Signora 
saw the flower bed in all its paper glory 
shoved on to the stage. 

The stage was set, everybody was in place 
and the stage manager had just touched the 
buzzer, signalling the orchestra leader to 
begin, when there was a startling cry of 
“ Signora ! ” from the Siebel, who was ready 
to make her entrance for the flower scene. 
They looked — and there was Signora crawl- 
ing across the stage. She was nearing the 
flower bed ! N ow she was there ! N ow she 
reached out a fat little hand, closed five little 

[6i ] 


SIGNORA 


fingers around the stem of a paper rose 
and a moment later was waving it trium- 
phantly in the air as much as to say, “You 
forgot to give it to me, did you ? Well, you 
see. I’ve gone and got it myself!” Then, 
as if realizing that somehow the situation 
was perilous, she deliberately rose to her 
feet and toddled off into the wings, only stop- 
ping for a moment to support herself by the 
back of the garden bench on which Mar- 
guerite sits while singing her spinning song. 

Hardly had Signora disappeared behind 
the scene, when the curtain went up and 
Siebel began the familiar “ Le Parlate 
d’amour.” She got off just in time not to 
make an unexpected ddbut in opera. Yet 
of all those in the wings, including Siebel, 
who had most at stake, because the contre- 
temps would have ruined the “ Flower Song,” 
not one had run out on the stage to seize 
and carry her off. They were so much 
interested in watching her go after the flower 
and in her rising to her feet and toddling 
over to the bench and from there to the 
wings — it was such a moment of suspense — 
[62] 


SIGNORA 


that they did not hear the orchestra and for- 
got all about the curtain. As for Signora, 
once back she toddled to her basket, climbed 
into it and, with an air of complete satis- 
faction, buried her little nose in the paper 
petals. 


[63] 


IGNORA took special delight in 
those operas which ended in a display of 
vocal pyrotechnics for the prima donna — 
like “ Sonnambula ” or “ Lucia ” (when they 
ring down the curtain on the mad scene). 

On such occasions the prima donna stood 
far forward, while well behind her on the 
stage the other principals ranged themselves 
in a half moon. Then, as the curtain fell, 
they would advance applauding and exclaim- 
ing “ brava ! brava ! ” (whether they admired 
her singing or were glad it was over) until 
the curtain was again rung up. Then they 
would fall back into their lunette formation. 

This was repeated several times until the 
applause had continued long enough for the 
flunkey to push up the sliding door in the 
proscenium and the prima donna crossed 
and recrossed the ‘‘apron” in front of the 
[64] 


SIGNORA 


curtain. Signora always joined in these 
demonstrations, straightening herself up in 
her basket, clapping her little hands vigor- 
ously and piping ‘'bravas,” with her baby 
voice. The prima donna on her way to the 
front never failed to wave a hand to her 
smallest and most enthusiastic admirer. 

Yet strangely enough the opera which 
most fascinated Signora, ended very differ- 
ently. It was “ Carmen ” — the opera that 
was “ on ” the night she was left at the stage 
door — which she had a perfect passion for 
watching. From the opening chorus to the 
fall of the curtain upon the murdered cig- 
arette girl, her eyes were fairly glued to what 
was proceeding on the stage. It was useless 
to attempt to remove her from behind the 
wings during a performance of this opera ; 
and the prima donna’s dressing-room had 
no charm for her then, unless Carmen her- 
self was in there. Even the “ Avisso Impor- 
tante ” lost its terrors, for the only occasion 
on which she had disregarded its warning 
was the first time she watched a rehearsal 
of “ Carmen.” 


[65 ] 


SIGNORA 


It was not even a dress rehearsal. Car- 
men herself wore a cardigan over a street 
costume ; Michaela was in a shirt waist and 
bicycle skirt with a round felt hat ; Escamillo, 
the gay Toreador, had on a cutaway coat 
and grey trousers ; Don J ose, a light tan top 
coat over a sack suit with highly polished 
tan shoes ; — yet Signora watched and lis- 
tened as she never had watched and listened 
before. It was a night rehearsal and the 
hour grew so late that Yudels thought it 
time for her to be hoisted up to bed. But 
the moment he approached her to fasten the 
rope around the basket, she set up a series 
of shrieks that stopped the rehearsal and 
brought every one on the stage around her. 
Nothing any one could say or do — no 
persuasion, no soothing, no, not even the 
bonbon which Carmen held up so temptingly 
near her little mouth — was of avail. She 
continued shrieking and fighting with arms 
and legs until Yudels gave up. Then she 
subsided. The rehearsal went on ; and after 
a few fitful sobs she thrust a thumb in her 
mouth, and again was all attention, 

[66 ] 


SIGNORA 


“What do you say to that? Can you 
explain it? ’’asked Yudels, who was much 
disturbed by the incident, of some of the 
artists who stood in a group on the stage 
waiting for the conductor to finish some 
excited extemporaneous remarks addressed 
to the orchestra. 

“It is the food you give her,” angrily 
exclaimed the little Italian baritone. “ Why 
don’t you bring her up on macaroni ? ” 

“ Bah ! ” commented the Carmen, who was 
a Frenchwoman and the greatest Carmen 
that ever lived, looking contemptuously 
down at the little baritone. “You should 
know better. Who is she ? Who was her 
mother ? What do we know about Signora 
or where she came from ? But I can tell 
you one thing, from what happened to-night. 
Somewhere back of her — no matter how 
many generations — is a Carmen. Look at 
her eyes. How dark, how deep they are. 
Did you see the fire leap from them when 
she was angry ? That is Spain or Southern 
France, which is the same thing. And then 
how easily she is picking up French and 

[67] 


SIGNORA 


Italian — the Latin tongues — and how she 
stumbles over that nasty German. All this 
evening when I have been on the stage, her 
eyes have followed me. Don’t you suppose 
I have felt them ? There is a Carmen back 
of it all, I tell you. Some woman of her 
race has been killed for love. She has the 
strain in her blood. W atch her well, Y udels ; 
watch Signora. It is the bad in us that 
always crops out. The good in us ? Bah ! 
It cannot stand up against the bad that is 
back of it ! No matter how we may shrink 
from it and, God knows, some of us struggle 
hard enough against it — a hand seems to 
reach out from that mysterious past and 
thrust us on ! ” 

‘‘ Madame, your cue ! The stage is 
waiting ! ” 

A moment later Carmen, with the fatal 
grace of a serpent in every motion of her 
swaying body, was singing Prls le bastion 
de Seville ; while Signora, sitting bolt up- 
right in her basket, was staring at her. 

After this episode the costumer made a 
little Carmen costume for Signora, copied 
[ 68 ] 


SIGNORA 


crimson skirt and all, after that worn by the 
prima donna who was so famous in the char- 
acter ; and, whenever the opera was given 
Signora was attired in the costume of the 
rdle. There were two Carmens — the vivid, 
impassioned artist on the stage, and the 
child who sat in the wings without remov- 
ing her eyes from her. Indeed, Signora 
became so familiar with the opera that often 
she could be seen following with the move- 
ment of her lips what the real Carmen 
was singing, and swaying her little body in 
unison. Nothing could be more intense 
than the look she fastened on Carmen in 
the death scene. From the moment Car- 
men staggered and fell under the thrust of 
Don Jose’s dagger, till she sprang to her 
feet with the fall of the curtain. Signora 
watched as if she feared a real blow had 
been struck, and the prima donna really 
had been killed. The relief in the child’s 
tension when the singer, who had been 
quick to note the impression made by the 
scene on the little one’s mind, was on her 
feet again and threw Signora a kiss, was 
plainly visible on her features. 

[69] 


SIGNORA 


Naturally the prima donna who had made 
Carmen famous, and whom in turn ‘ Car- 
men ” may be said to have made famous, 
felt herself drawn strongly toward the child. 
In fact, she was fascinated with her, and 
Yudels had orders, whenever Bizet’s opera 
was given, to bring her into the dressing- 
room as soon as Carmen arrived* Proba- 
bly no child was ever talked to, or rather 
talked at, in such an amazing way as was 
Signora in this dressing-room of “ Carmen 
nights. The prima donna had the mercu- 
rial temperament of Southern France. She 
was one of the greatest of artists, yet in 
many ways still a child. Because she was 
still a child she thought the other child, who 
sat up in the basket watching her every mo- 
tion, could understand everything she said. 

This is what usually occurred. About seven 
o’clock in swept the prima donna, followed 
by two maids. A quick embrace and a 
rapid fire discharge of kisses for Signora. 

“ Air ! air ! I stifle ! ” 

Unlike most other prima donnas, this Car- 
men delighted in fresh air,and in amoment one 
[ 70 ] 


SIGNORA 


of the maids had raised the window. Yu- 
dels, who knew Carmen’s hobby, always had 
Signora well bundled up before taking her 
into the dressing-room. 

“ Now read something lively ! Quick! ” 

The maids had put on their wraps to pro- 
tect themselves against the cold. One of 
them was preparing to dress the prima 
donna and make her up for her rdle. The 
other opened the latest French novel, re- 
ceived that day by post direct from Caiman 
Levy, and began reading, alternately hold- 
ing the book in one hand while she warmed 
the other over the gas jet. Every now and 
then the maid looked up and watched the 
prima donna, for she had learned from ex- 
perience her mistress’s whims. 

Suddenly the singer, who had been pac- 
ing the room humming to herself as she 
tossed her everyday clothes hither and 
thither, or stopped a moment to get into 
part of her costume, halted right in front of 
Signora and drew a long breath. The 
maid ceased reading. Signora stared. She 
knew what was coming, and in a moment 

[ 71 ] 


SIGNORA 


from between Carmen’s rounded lips issued 
a vibrant trill that made the child draw her- 
self up and listen as hard as she stared. 
The trill ended, the diva, with a toss of the 
head, dropped into a chair at the make-up 
table, and held out her cheek to be rouged. 
Up she jumped again before the maid had 
half finished. Swaying her body to the 
rhythm of the “ Habanera,” or “ Seguidilla,” 
and gracefully swinging her arms as if she 
were striking the tambourine or playing the 
castanets, she sang softly, but with all the 
arch coquetry she knew so well how to put 
into the rdle. Then back again to the dress- 
ing-table, and more reading aloud. 

“ My jupon ! ” 

She snatched the crimson satin petticoat 
with cerise ruffles — the most striking part 
of her Carmen costume — from the maid, and 
holding it to her waist addressed Signora, 
just as if she thought the child understood 
every word. 

“Perhaps you think. Signora, that this 
satin petticoat and the cerise ruffles are too 
rich for a Spanish cigarette girl. Oh, I 
[ 72 ] 


SIGNORA 


know I’ve been criticised for wearing it. 
But, do you know, Signora, it is actually 
the most real thing in my costume. I went 
to Spain to get up my Carmen costume, and 
it is just right ; I went to Seville, the very 
city in which the scene of ‘ Carmen ’ is laid. 
I watched many a cigarette girl at the very 
doors of the factories. 

“ There are second-hand costumers in 
Spain, just as there are in Paris and London 
and here. I tracked many of my models to 
these second-hand shops. I saw one of them 
buy just such a skirt as this at the very same 
shop. I saw her flirting with her dress to 
show her brilliant petticoat. It proved that 
she was not used to such finery and wanted 
people to notice her. I make precisely the 
same point. Carmen, you know, isn’t very 
nice. In fact she’s very naughty. — Now 
don’t you grow up to be like her ! 

“ Then the crimson roses which I wear in 
my hair — give them to me, Suzette.” 

The maid would hand them to the prima 
donna, who would thrust the long stems 
into her thick black hair. 

[ 73 ] 


SIGNORA 


“ Here again I follow the custom of the 
Spanish cigarette girls. In spring and 
summer these roses form their only head 
covering.” 

Then she would slip on the satin petticoat, 
take the handglass from the table, and look 
at herself coquettishly. “ Am I pretty. Sig- 
nora? ‘ Yes ? ’ — ‘ Beautiful ?’ Well ! there 
are five girls in our family — and I am the 
ugliest.” 

As likely as not she let the mirror fall. 
When that occurred she covered her face 
with her hands and shuddered (for she was 
filled with superstition) till Suzette had 
picked it up with a reassuring, “It is not 
broken, madame.” 

“ Ah 1 then the performance will go all 
right. But if it had broken, who knows 
what would happen 1 Now for a roulade 1 ” 
and her beautiful voice ran up and down the 
scale, richly and smoothly, till the whole room 
seemed filled with luscious sound. Strange 
mixture of music, coquetry, and superstition ! 
Is it a wonder that no other singer could 
approach her as Carmen ? She was Carmen. 

[ 74 ] 


SIGNORA 


‘‘Now let me tell you something else, 
Signora. It may help you if ever you be- 
come an opera singer, which you mustn’t 
think of doing — always living for your voice 
— you can’t do this, you can’t do that — al- 
ways wondering one year if you have grown 
any older since the last, or if the public will 
think you have ! But never mind about 
that now. They don’t know that I have — 
the poor fools. A few years longer, a few 
extra touches of rouge each year — ha, ha, 
what will they know? But the time will 
come when poor Carmen’s voice will be 
cracked and gone, when Don Jose might as 
well run his dagger through her worthless 
heart ; for, to the footlights, she will be dead. 
And then ? — but no matter. Signora. Let 
me tell you something very funny. When 
I rehearsed Carmen for the first time, the 
stage manager wanted me to do it one way 
and I wanted to do it the other. So I did 
mine. He called in the director to give me 
a talking to. 

“ ‘ Leave her alone,’ said the director — 
‘ She has no idea of “ Carmen,” and she will 

[75 ] 


SIGNORA 


find it out at the first performance. It will 
be a good punishment for her.’ 

‘‘ You should have seen them open their 
eyes at the premiere when the audience 
simply went wild over me. Oh ! it was 
grand ; and next morning ‘ Figaro ’ and the 
other papers said I was the Carmen. Yes, 
Signora, it is the Carmen in whose dressing- 
room you are and whom you are going to 
watch to-night. It will be a great thing for 
you to remember when I have been laid 
away in my tomb. 

“ My tomb ? Why, signora, haven’t I 
told you all about it? No ? I have had a 
beautiful tomb designed and it is all for my- 
self too. Why ? Partly to save my mother 
the trouble of buying a headstone after I 
die, partly to be sure that I shall lie amid 
artistic surroundings. I am an artist and,” — 
with a shudder — “ I should hate to run any 
risk of being buried under anything ugly. 
It will be something worth looking at. 
There will be two statues of myself — as 
Ophelia and as Carmen. You know they 
both die. They are tragic rdles. That’s 
[76] 


SIGNORA 


the reason I have these statues on my tomb. 
Death is not very amusing, except possibly 
to those who are going to inherit your 
money. 

“Where will I have my tomb erected? 
Either in Pere la Chaise, the big cemetery 
in Paris, or on my little farm in Southern 
France. I suppose either place is peaceful 
enough, though I take it for granted I won’t 
hear any noise once I am inside — not even 
if a whole orchestra played Wagner right 
by the door, though if they were to strike 
up the ^ Seguidillay I might come out and 
dance it for them.” 

“ Curtain’s up, Madame ! ” 

“ Come, Signora !” 


[77] 


VI 


Carmen ” prima donna 
was not the only one who spoiled Sig- 
nora. The child was the pet of the whole 
opera house. The German mezzo would 
pack her under her capacious arm as if 
she were a bundle and carry her to where 
the miniature hobby horses used in “ Die 
Walkure” were stalled between perform- 
ances. These wooden horses were intro- 
duced in the “Ride of the Valkyrs” with 
boys dressed up as Valkyrs, — flowing gar- 
ments, breastplates, shields, helmets, and 
spears. They were slid over a narrow 
bridge at the rear of the stage and in front 
of a gauze drop amid flashes of lightning 
and reverberations of thunder. This was 
the distant approach of the wild sisters of the 
[78] 



SIGNORA 

air depicted to the eye and heralded to the 
ear. 

Signora enjoyed watching the scene, 
which was a source of secret grief to Yudels, 
who could not understand why it was that 
any one in any way connected with him 
should want to remain anywhere except as 
far away as possible from a Wagner perform- 
ance. When the German mezzo lifted 
her on one of the hobby horses, Signora 
would point to the “ thunder-box,” a great 
square frame covered with rawhide, and nod 
with her little head persistently in its direc- 
tion ; and nothing would do but for the 
mezzo to go over to the thunder-box and 
thump it with all her might. Then Signora, 
when the thunder reverberated just as it did 
at the real performance, would draw herself 
up and proudly sit astride her wooden steed 
as she had seen the boy Valkyrs do. Just 
what were the first words Signora ever 
uttered is not of record, but they are as 
likely to have been “ho-jo-to-ho ” as any- 
thing else. It was a great scene. Signora 
urging on the hobby horse as if the fate of a 

[79] 


SIGNORA 


performance hung in the balance and she 
were riding to save the day; the large 
German mezzo thumping at the thunder- 
box and so carried away by the excitement 
of the moment that she allowed the huge 
volume of her voice to roll out weird Valkyr 
shouts above the storm she herself was 
creating. 

The first time this occurred there chanced 
to be a rehearsal on the stage. When those 
engaged in it heard the strange din, the 
conductor rapped on his desk and the re- 
hearsal came to an abrupt stop. Flushed 
with anger he went down into the cellar 
whence the sounds came. In a few mo- 
ments he reappeared and beckoning all to 
follow, led the way down the cellar steps, 
which were soon crowded with principals, 
chorus singers, and orchestra players. There 
was a few seconds silence of amazement, 
then a suppressed titter, and then such a 
burst of laughter that it drowned the thun- 
der of the tempest and caused the German 
mezzo, who had her back turned to the stairs, 
to look around. As the full significance 
[ 80 ] 


SIGNORA 


of the scene gradually dawned upon her, 
her strokes with the drum sticks became 
limper and limper until the thunder died 
away in a long descrescendo and she her- 
self collapsed and fairly writhed on the 
cellar floor with merriment, while Signora 
angrily waved her spear at the crowd on the 
stairs who had spoiled her fun. 

Signora was a polyglot little thing, for 
she heard no less than four languages 
spoken around her most of the time and 
probably had been told she was a darling in 
six or seven. No wonder that when she 
began to speak it usually was half English, 
half in the language of the person to whom 
she was speaking. Most of the great artists 
were foreigners and spoke German, French, 
and Italian, but the stage hands and the 
other employees spoke English. And then 
there was the American prima donna, one 
of the loveliest women on the stage — an ex- 
quisite Marguerite, Juliet, and Elsa; the 
most charming Michaela in “ Carmen ” (so 
pure and sweet looking), and so ravishingly 
beautiful as Aida that no one wondered 
[ 8i ] 


SIGNORA 


Rhadames should have preferred the slave 
to the princess. Signora’s feelings toward 
her were quite different from those she 
had toward the great French Carmen. The 
latter completely fascinated her with her 
almost unceasing movement and chatter. 
There was something mysterious, almost 
hypnotic, in the charm she exercised over the 
child, and yet not so mysterious either, for 
did she not exert it over her audiences,over 
everybody who saw and heard her, in fact ? 
But when Signora went into the American 
prima donna’s dressing-room and climbed up 
into her lap and saw the beautiful Madonna- 
like face bending over, she would reach out 
her arms and place them confidingly around 
the lovely singer’s neck. 

There was in the company a large French 
basso cantando, the famous Planky, a superb 
artist, and a very handsome man. He was 
a great favorite at the Sunday night con- 
certs at the opera house, from which he was 
never allowed to escape without singing 
Faure’s “ Les Rameux ” and Schumann’s 
“ Two Grenadiers ” as encores to his regular 
[ 82 ] 


SIGNORA 


numbers on the programme. The last 
note of the “ Marseillaise,” with which the 
“ Two Grenadiers ” ends, he invariably em- 
phasized with a characteristic martial ges- 
ture — an imaginary sword thrust — which 
completely carried the audience off its feet 
and made them re-demand even the encore. 
He had the artist’s soul, and was so frankly 
and disingenuously vain about his voice and 
looks — priding himself especially on his 
finely shaped nose — that no one could possi- 
bly find fault with him for being so. Some- 
times the American prima donna appeared 
at these concerts, and then they sang to- 
gether, in most exquisite style, Faure’s duet, 
“ La Crucifix,” their singing of it being the 
finest example of bel canto heard on the 
concert or operatic stage since the days 
when Patti and Scalchi appeared together 
in Semiramide.” 

Just before it was time for them to go on, 
Planky would call for the prima donna at 
her dressing-room door. One might sup- 
pose that a singer, a few moments before 
going on the stage, would feel a trifle nervous 

[83] 


SIGNORA 


regarding his voice, or his success with the 
audience, and, that, if at such a critical 
moment he said anything at all to the other 
artist, with whom he was going to sing, it 
would concern the piece or some little 
nuance in expression which had suggested 
itself to him. But not so with our friend, 
the French basso cantando. For as the 
prima donna joined him, and they stood in 
the wings ready to go on, he would bow, 
and, with a sweeping gesture, say : “ Ah, 
Madame, now they are going to see the two 
most beautiful noses in the company ! ” 
Possibly he would have liked to have said 
“ the most beautiful nose in the company,” 
but he was too gallant to disparage the 
prima donna’s by referring only to his own. 
Besides hers really was quite as beautiful. 

Signora and he were great friends. He 
used to take her high on his shoulder and 
hold her up so she could reach out and pick 
paper leaves off some of the “ practical ” 
trees behind the scenes ; or he would carry 
her around to make calls at the different 
dressing-rooms. 


[84] 


SIGNORA 


His voice was so sonorous and he was so 
large and dignified in his bearing (when he 
had to be) that they cast him for the full 
line of high priests in the company’s reper- 
toire. At the same time he was so versatile 
that he was the greatest Mephistopheles ever 
seen on the opera stage. Signora seemed 
to appreciate the contrast between the rdles 
in which he appeared. For, when he was 
carrying her about, she would grab one of 
his moustachios as if she were pulling a bell 
rope and when, in obedience to the signal, 
he would stop to find out what she wanted, 
she would say with a roguish glance “ Vous 
etes le boss high priest et le boss devil of 
the company.” She was a knowing little 
thing. For sometimes, when he was carry- 
ing her about, she would raise a finger to 
him to stop and, when he halted, point to 
her nose and say, as seriously as she could, 
“ Now zey will see ze two most beauti- 
ful noses in ze company.” Whenever she 
did this, he was so amused that he nearly 
dropped her. 

In fact she grew up to be as intimate 
[85 ] 


SIGNORA 


with the great singers of the company — the 
divinities of the operatic stage — as if they 
were her brothers and sisters. To her, the 
great Polish tenor simply was “ Jean ” and 
his brother, the basso, who looked big enough 
to swallow her, merely “ Edouard.” Noth- 
ing amused her more than the tenor’s fad of 
imitating animals. Often when he was 
standing behind the scenes, ready to go on 
as Siegfried, or Lohengrin, or Faust, she 
would say, ‘‘Now Jean, monkey!” Then 
whether J ean was clad in the skins of wild 
beasts or in the silver armor of Lohengrin 
or wore the garb of the ill-fated Marguerite’s 
lover, down he would crouch on his haunches 
and go through his monkey tricks in a man- 
ner that would have set her off in a loud 
cackle had it not been for that awful “ Avisso 
Importante,” with its portentous “ Silencio ” 
above her head. A moment later “Jean” 
would get his cue, pull himself together, 
stride out on the stage and, as Siegfried, 
Lohengrin, or Faust, sway the great audience 
at will. 

Everybody behind the scenes knew Signora 

[ 86 ] 


SIGNORA 


and it seemed as if none of them could do 
enough for her. To begin with, there 
was the wardrobe woman, who had had the 
miniature Carmen costume made for Signora. 
Not a stitch of clothing for the child did 
she allow to be made outside the opera 
house. Then in addition to the “ Carmen’' 
dress she prepared a whole line of operatic 
costumes for her ; and, because she had a 
pretty figure and Lohengrin’s suit of sil- 
ver armor was so handsome, the wardrobe 
woman made a small set of armor for the 
girl, who strutted around in it on “ Lohen- 
grin” nights as proudly as if she were Jean 
himself. gardrobzere liked to carry Sig- 

nora about the wardrobe rooms, for the child, 
being feminine, manifested the liveliest inter- 
est in the costumes and in the many women 
at work in the department. As the dressing 
of an opera sometimes involves the making 
of costumes for some two or three hundred 
people, there often was great activity in the 
wardrobe-room, bolts of silk and satin, and 
spools of heavy braid being unwound ; and 
many fingers busily plying needles or deftly 
[ 8 ;] 


SIGNORA 


guiding stuffs over sewing machines, whose 
whirr made the rooms hum like a factory. 
And such an array of costumes already in 
stock ! If men and women of all historic 
generations — Egyptian, Assyrian, classic, 
mediaeval ; knights and ladies, burghers, 
soldiers, peasants — suddenly had come to 
life again and made their appearance in the 
wardrobe-rooms, they could have been 
clothed according to the fashion of their 
day. A large hanging closet and a drawer 
were assigned to each opera in the repertoire, 
the closet for the chorus, the drawer for the 
principals, except that all the devils, Mephis- 
topheles and the others, were kept in a 
drawer by themselves, presumably in order 
that they might not lead the other charac- 
ters astray. Signora, who was not long in 
taking in the arrangements, would point to 
the devil drawer and chuckle, “ Me see big 
Planky with ze two most beautiful noses in 
ze company.” She liked to be in the room 
about four o’clock in the afternoon, when 
the costumes for the night’s opera were 
taken out and sent downstairs to be hunef 
[ 88 ] 


SIGNORA 


on long lines of hooks in the chorus and 
ballet rooms, or placed in the principal’s 
dressing-rooms. Signora soon was able to 
distinguish the costumes of the different 
principals and, as they were taken out, would 
exclaim Jean ! ” “ Edouard ! ” “ Big Ger- 
man!” Next morning she would be up 
there again watching the inspection of the 
costumes — each loosened stitch taken in, 
every tear mended, every missing button 
replaced, before they were put away. 

Besides the amusement which Signora 
derived from observing the proceedings in 
the costumer s department, there was an- 
other reason why she liked the woman at 
the head of it. It was to her suggestion 
she owed her first doll — and several others 
which followed in its wake — the most re- 
markable set of dolls any child ever had 
possessed. When the wardrobe woman had 
finished making the Carmen costume for 
Signora, and everybody behind the scenes 
was talking about it and saying how hand- 
some the child looked in it, the wardrobe 
woman turned to the property master, and 

[89] 


SIGNORA 


said : “You make her a doll, and I’ll dress 
it up in a Carmen costume for her.” The 
property master was delighted with the sug- 
gestion. He had just finished a new ser- 
pent for ** Rheingold,” a reptile that could 
indulge in the most realistic convolutions, 
and some monkeys with movable joints, 
which could be worked by boys inside, for 
the “Magic Flute.” To make a doll for 
a baby whom the whole opera house adored 
would be a pleasant change. He set about 
it at once. 

The property master’s workshop was up- 
stairs, off the fly gallery. In it he had a 
large alcohol oven and all the necessary ma- 
terials for modelling and casting, or other- 
wise manufacturing, the needed properties. 
When you entered you saw a leg lying on 
the table, a head deposited in the corner, 
part of a dragon undergoing repairs on the 
floor, an Egyptian standard placed against 
the wall, with a few monkeys and snakes 
and a bear’s head variously disposed about 
the place. Men were busy making moulds 
of clay, or pressing layers of wet paper into 

[90] 


SIGNORA 


moulds already finished. The property 
master usually drew out the designs, and 
had his assistants carry out the actual work 
under his supervision. But the doll for 
Signora he was unwilling to entrust to hands 
less skillful than his own. It was to be 
made with even more care than the “ props” 
used in the most expensive productions. 

Tacked about the walls were a lot of pho- 
tographs of celebrities. Chancing to look 
up while he was modelling the doll’s head, 
his eyes rested on a photograph of the 
famous Carmen prima donna. An idea ! 
Deftly running his fingers over the clay — a 
few glances at the prima donna’s face — and 
the doll’s head began to take on an unmis- 
takable resemblance to her. When a mould 
had been made from the clay and the head 
had been cast in papier mache and hardened 
in the alcohol furnace, the body, arms and 
legs put on, and the creation dressed up in 
a Carmen costume — there was a miniature 
reproduction of the great prima donna in 
her greatest rdle. 

This Carmen doll, of which the property 

[91 ] 


SIGNORA 


master and the costumer were immensely 
proud, was admired very much behind the 
scenes by everybody, even by the prima 
donna herself. “Ah, Signora,” she ex- 
claimed, “no wonder I draw big houses, if 
I am as pretty as that. Be sure you grow 
up pretty. Signora. But no — haven’t I 
warned you against being an opera singer ? 
Yet why not ? Perhaps you will grow up 
to have a voice, and I will teach you to sing 
Carmen. Then when I grow old and begin 
to lose my voice and the public that now 
pelts me with roses won’t think even the 
thorns good enough for me, or when I am 
lying voiceless and motionless with Carmen 
and Ophelia watching silently beside me, 
you may keep up the traditions. You shall 
sing and act it just as finely as I do. You 
shall be just as fine a Carmen. Of course, 
the old men in the audience will shake their 
heads and say : ‘ I heard the great Carmen, 
Carave, in her prime, and this one is a 
novice compared with her,’ but you will be 
just as fine as I am now, and they will come 
to see whatever they may say.” Then she 

[92] 


SIGNORA 


would murmur to herself, “If she grows up 
to have a voice, what a Carmen she will 
make ! ” 

The Carmen doll was just the beginning 
of such a set of dolls as no child ever had. 
It occurred to the costumer that the prima 
donna doll might just as well have a full set 
of costumes for the Carave repertoire. So 
she and her assistants went to work forth- 
with and produced costumes which enabled 
Signora to dress up her miniature counter- 
feit presentment of Mme. Carave as San- 
tuzza in “ Cavalleria,” Marguerite in 
“ Faust,” and other rdles in which she had 
appeared. Nor did the matter stop there. 
The property master and the costumer 
reproduced all the famous principals in the 
company with a full line of costumes and 
with evening dress for those who were pop- 
ular at the Sunday night concerts. Most 
of all, however, the Carmen doll was in evi- 
dence, though, when Signora knew that the 
big French basso can tan do was going to 
sing, she would have Yudels get “Planky” 
and the lovely American prima donna down 

[93 ] 


SIGNORA 


from the shelf in the wardrobe room where 
the dolls were kept. Then she would dress 
them in evening costume and lie in wait for 
the big Frenchman. When he appeared 
ready to go on, she would point to the dolls, 
which she had ranged up against one of 
the wings, and exclaim triumphantly, “ See, 
Planky ! Ze two most beautiful noses in 
ze company !” For this little performance 
she always had an audience composed of the 
stage manager, the other singers of the 
evening and the employees of the house 
who came to look forward to it as a regular 
feature of a Sunday evening concert. N o one 
was more amused than big “ Planky ” him- 
self, who usually caught up Signora in his 
arms as if to carry her out on the stage with 
him. How little the expectant “front of 
the house ” realized what was going on be- 
hind the scenes ! 

But the boss carpenter was not to be out- 
done by the wardrobe and “props.” He 
went to work and made a highly finished 
set of miniature closets and drawers, so that 
Signora could hang up or stow away the 

[94] 


SIGNORA 


costumes, just as she had seen it done by 
the wardrobe women. 

When the “ Boss” called her into his shop 
to inspect them, she went into ecstasies over 
them. Then she stood back and after ex- 
amining them critically, walked up to one 
of the drawers, tapped it with her foot, and 
with a knowing nod said, “ This will be the 
drawer for ‘ Planky ’ and the other devils ! ” 


[95] 


VII 


S soon as the scenic artist 
heard what the costume and property de- 
partments had done for Signora, he straight- 
way must needs be doing something. 
What ! Stand idly by and let others con- 
tribute to the amusement of the little pet of 
the opera house ? Not he. 

Signora was on good terms with the scenic 
artist and the scene painters as with every 
one else behind the scenes. She was the first, 
after the heads of the various departments 
to know that a new opera was going to be put 
on ; for hardly a day passed that she did 
not flit in and out of their rooms, where she 
had carte blanche, and watch them at work. 
The progress of the big painted scenes for 
the opera house always interested her. The 
scenic artist’s studio was one of her favorite 
haunts. Perched on a high stool, her feet 

[96] 



SIGNORA 


drawn up on one of the top rungs, her elbows 
on her knees, her arms and hands support- 
ing her face, she kept her eyes fastened on 
his work. Often he did not know she was 
there until he happened to turn as he was 
taking up some fresh paint on his brush, 
for she flitted in and out so lightly, and as- 
cended her perch so noiselessly, that her 
entrances and exits were rarely noticed and, 
when the scenic artist did turn, he found her 
eyes not on him, but on his work, looking 
at the paints, if he happened to be making 
his colors on the palette, or following his 
brush if he were actually engaged in paint- 
ing. 

This was characteristic of Signora. 
There was a curious difference in her atti- 
tude towards the singers and towards those 
who contributed to the material outfit of an 
operatic production. With the singers she 
speedily made herself personally intimate. 
When they sang she watched them. She 
often clambered up into their laps or 
into their arms; made Jean and Edouard 
do their tricks for her ; pulled Planky’s 

[97] 


SIGNORA 


moustachios ; kissed the prima donnas, and 
went scampering through their dressing- 
rooms in her various, picturesque costumes. 
In fact, with the artists she was one of them. 
Their personalities attracted her as if she 
had something in common with them and 
felt as if she were going to grow up to be 
like them — as if she, herself, were a little 
artist. 

But with the other people*about the opera 
house, it was what they did that attracted 
her. They did things with their hands, and 
that seemed intuitively to put them on a 
lower plane with her. The queens and 
princes of the opera, to whom they all 
looked up and whose whims were law — she 
was their equal. Others knocked at the 
dressing-room doors and bowed and scraped 
— she passed in and out without so much as 
by your leave.” A mere child — the sprite 
of the opera house — she was an artist by in- 
stinct. The singers were the artists of the 
organization — they were the decisive things 
in opera. The others? There was some- 
thing mechanical and something material 
[98] 


SIGNORA 


about what they did, and she, uncon- 
sciously to herself (and to them also), kept 
them at a distance, as a princess of the royal 
blood would keep her attendants at a cer- 
tain distance. Yet Signora was adored just 
the same by the artisans of the opera house. 
They grew to have a certain feeling, almost 
a superstition, about her visits. If she 
stayed and watched their work, they were 
sure it was going on well. If she did not 
pay much attention to it, as if it did not 
interest her, they knew it was not up to the 
standard. 

There was much to make the scenic 
department attractive to her. To watch 
something develop from a little sketch on 
paper to a scene that filled the big stage of 
the opera house, was almost like being a spec- 
tator at the creation of a new world. Before 
the work of putting on a new opera began, 
there was a vast amount of consulting 
between the heads of departments, regard- 
ing the color scheme of costumes, scenery, 
and the various properties to be used, and 
regarding the light effects. Then they all 
C 99 ] 


Lore, 


SIGNORA 


set to figuring and casting up the cost of 
what they proposed doing. Generally it 
was much too high, and they had to consult 
all over again. Then when the scenic artist 
had sacrificed his pet idea of having a broad 
circular stairway in his new palace (without 
which he had said that the old palace might 
as well be “faked” up for the production) 
and the other departments had made similar 
sacrifices, until it had been demonstrated 
satisfactorily that the expenses would not 
eat up possible profits for three seasons to 
come, work was begun. 

A few rough sketches in black and white, 
and the scenic artist began his first scene 
in water-color on an ordinary-sized sketch 
block. Signora enjoyed watching him put 
on the colors, and seeing how one over the 
other made certain combinations of tints, 
and brought out certain effects. But this 
was only a flat aquarelle. How could the 
artist tell what it was going to be like when 
it had been spread over a drop, wings, prop- 
erties and set pieces ? And now came the 
very thing that most fascinated Signora 

C loo ] 


SIGNORA 


with the scenic artist’s department. For, 
on the table in his studio, he had a little 
theatre, possibly three feet high and corre- 
spondingly deep, with proscenium arches 
and tormentors ” (stationary wings repre- 
senting drawn curtains just back of the 
proscenium) and arrangements for the drop 
wings, borders, and other scenic accessories. 
From his water-color sketch, he proceeded 
to make a perfect miniature scene. So much 
of it as was to be represented on the large 
drop of the opera-house stage was painted 
upon the little three-foot high drop of the 
miniature theatre, and, in the same manner, 
wings, borders and set pieces were prepared 
for the little stage. According as it was an 
exterior or an interior, it had the same stony 
paths, arched bridges, cliffs, lawn, trees and 
“run-ways ” ; or the same columns, bay win- 
dows, stairways, niches and galleries, painted 
on flat, or “ practical,” as they would have to 
be on the big stage. In this manner the 
scene was shown in the miniature theatre 
just as it would be on the real stage of the 
opera house. 


[ loi 3 


SIGNORA 


When the scene had been set on the lit- 
tle stage, came the part which Signora liked 
perhaps better than any other part of the 
work. The scenic artist had, connected 
with his miniature stage, a perfect system of 
electric lights, corresponding in scale with 
that of the opera-house stage. He had a 
row of the tiniest and cutest electrical foot- 
lights of white, blue, red, and amber, each 
lamp hardly larger than a finger nail. He 
had the same scheme of lighting in the bor- 
ders and back of the proscenium, so that he 
could try the effects on his scene model of 
the very combinations of colored lights that 
would be used in the performance, and could 
make any changes in thecolor scheme which 
he thought necessary before the model was 
handed over to the painters to be enlarged 
on the enormous canvasses. 

As soon as he began to darken the room. 
Signora knew what was coming. She liked 
to watch him turn on the various little cranks 
of the miniature electric switchboard, and 
throw the different combinations of light on 
the scene. When she liked the combination, 
[ 102 ] 


SIGNORA 


she applauded, and then the scenic artist was 
much pleased, and called in the electrician, 
who agreed that the effect was very fine and 
said that the artist knew more about light- 
ing up a scene than any one else he had 
ever known — and all the time it was Signora. 

For whether it was music, or painting, or 
lighting, or costuming, the child was artistic 
to her finger tips. 

Afterwards the costumer, property mas- 
ter, and stage carpenter were called in, the 
scenic artist standing off and looking at his 
creation as if he were quite willing to leave 
it all to their judgment, though in reality 
he was enraptured at what he had done and 
considered it his masterpiece, as he did 
every other scene he had painted. The 
stage manager thought it very beautiful and 
it was really too bad, but he had to bring 
on a hundred people in the finale and the 
stairs (on the broad sweep of which the 
scenic artist had relied for one of his great 
effects) would have to be moved back. The 
costumer also admired the scene, but she 
had just been offered some beautiful purple 

[ 103 ] 


SIGNORA 


satins at a bargain and she wanted to use 
them in the costumes for this act, and could 
he not deepen the color tones a little so as 
to make them in harmony with the fabrics ? 
And so, each one praised — yet suggested 
changes ; always going to the extremes in 
expatiating upon the necessity of harmoni- 
zing all the effects, knowing that the scenic 
artist would fight for his own ; and so it was 
that, somehow or other, each got pretty 
much what each wanted in the compromise 
that was always reached. 

Then came the transfer of the scene, from 
the model to the high canvas drop and wings. 

This was done on a “paint bridge” — 
another spot that Signora haunted. In 
most theatres this is usually a platform, 
which is raised and lowered by ropes like 
the platform used by house painters. But 
at the opera-house it was really a narrow 
bridge spanning the space between the first 
fly galleries and forming the only upstairs 
connection between the two sides of the 
house, behind the scenes. Otherwise, every 
time a person wanted to reach one side of 
[ 104 ] 


SIGNORA 


the house, from the other, he would have 
been obliged to go downstairs and cross 
the stage. The paint bridge enabled him 
to save at least several of the long stair- 
ways. 

On the fly galleries near the paint bridge 
and on the bridge itself, were tables with 
earthenware jars and cans, full of paint, with 
brushes as large as those used by house 
painters — a fantasy in brilliant disorder. 
Sometimes the choicest color to be used on 
a scene, was mixed in an old tomato can or 
pail, or anything else that happened to be 
handy. The great canvases were raised or 
lowered into position back of the paint bridge, 
according to the portion of the scene or 
model which the painters wanted to enlarge 
on canvas. For the scenic artist had pre- 
pared his scene model to a “ scale,” so that 
each one-half inch on the model, was 
enlarged to a foot on the painted scene. 
The paint bridge was about fifty feet above 
the stage and there was nothing but the 
loose hanging canvas to prevent anyone who 
took a misstep from being precipitated to 
[ 105 ] 


SIGNORA 


the stage below, but Signora was thoroughly 
at home there, and never thought of danger. 
Sometimes she would clamber up on one of 
the tables and stir the thick, scummy paint in 
the earthenware jars or cans, or thin it out 
with turpentine ; or she would grab the 
brushes out of the painters’ hands and her- 
self put a stroke or two on the canvas, where 
the scene painters always allowed them to 
remain — just for good luck. 

One reason why Signora liked the paint- 
bridge was that from there she could see 
what was going on on the stage below, be- 
sides watching the painting of the scenery. 
Occasionally, she would leave the bridge for 
one of the fly galleries and peer down on 
the diminutive-looking figures singing and 
gesticulating far beneath her. It was like 
looking down upon a world from the clouds, 
for up there in the flies she was on a line 
with the sky borders. Then, too, she en- 
joyed poking the Siegfried dragon, that was 
hoisted up there after performances, so as to 
be out of the way, and hung by a pulley, 
but not too high for her to reach if there 
[ io6] 



f/ Pulleys and cleats and rope enough up there for a full-rigged ship ” 





SIGNORA 


chanced to be one of the light property ** 
halberds or some ancient or mediaeval 
weapon handy, as there generally was. She 
liked to jab at the monster, that looked so 
fierce, and yet was little more than green 
scaly cloth mounted on a wire frame and 
had a huge papier-machd head, with moving 
jaws and eyelids — electric lamps in its eyes 
and, in its fangs, a gas pipe, through which 
at performances it emitted steam, supposed 
to be the dragon’s poisonous and deadly 
breath, when the gas pipe was properly con- 
nected by a hose with a steam cock in a 
“pocket” on the stage. Every time she 
jabbed the dragon, it swayed slowly to and 
fro, rustling with its tail and shaking its 
head in a regretful sort of way, as if it real- 
ized that in prehistoric times it would not 
have been the sport of a little waif behind 
the scenes of the opera house. 

As the drops and borders were worked 
from the fly galleries, there were pulleys and 
cleats and ropes enough there for a full-rigged 
ship, and if, sometimes. Signora was drowsy 
from long watching of the painters or baiting 

[ 107 ] 


SIGNORA 


the dragon, she would curl herself up in a 
hollow of one of these big coils and go to 
sleep. 

As Signora grew older she became more 
independent. One day when Yudels was 
hoisting her up, some one called him and, as 
usual, he made fast the rope, so that the bas- 
ket hung about half way between the first and 
second galleries and near the paint bridge. 
Not long afterwards the scene painters 
were startled by sounds like sharp blows 
from a wooden hammer. On looking 
around, they discovered that the “ Siegfried ” 
dragon was blinking at them, its heavy 
wooden eyelids, every time they closed, 
coming down with a smart whack. Some 
one was “ working” them, but who? 

A few minutes later the men knew, for 
Signora crept out of the head and into her 
basket, and Yudels at that moment resum- 
ing operations, was hoisted up to her eyrie, 
the amused and astonished men following 
her with their eyes until she had safely 
landed. Of course, Yudels heard of it (for 
that matter, everybody behind the scenes 
[ io8 ] 



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SIGNORA 


knew of it within the next half hour) and he 
was very proud of the instinct that had en- 
abled her to ‘‘ work ” the dragon’s eyes with- 
out ever having been shown how. Her 
little fingers had avoided the stop cock, 
which during the performances was con- 
nected with the steam hose, and made the 
monster breathe steam from its huge fangs, 
and the electric button which caused its 
eyes to shine like fire, and had sought out the 
wires which drew up its eyelids, the only 
things which could be “worked” while the 
dragon was hanging up, and disconnected 
from the steam and electric apparatus. 

One of the properties Signora always en- 
joyed was the big serpent used in “ Rhein- 
gold.” This was a monster about fifteen 
feet long, made with moveable joints and 
ingeniously constructed so that it would 
crawl across the stage, wriggling its body, 
switching its tail and rearing its head. 

There was a door in its back just behind 
its eyes, and when the time came for the 
monster to go on the stage, this door was 
opened and a boy got inside the snake and 
[ 109 ] 


SIGNORA 


lay flat on his stomach ; then the door was 
closed. The snake was mounted on small 
casters and there were two small holes in 
its belly. Through these the boy thrust a 
couple of small pegs and by jabbing them 
into the floor of the stage, made the reptile 
crawl in the most natural manner. His feet 
rested in stirrups connected with two wires 
that ran through the joints back to the tail ; 
and, as he jabbed the pegs into the stage, 
he would go through the motions of swim- 
ming, drawing the wires towards him and 
letting them slack again. In this way he 
made the reptile go through a series of con- 
volutions, and by raising his body at the 
same time caused it to rear its head. Thus 
the serpent appeared to crawl and wriggle 
in the most natural manner and was one of 
the star performers of “ Rheingold.” 

Signora had often watched the proceed- 
ings. She had seen the whole method of 
working it explained to a new boy. That 
was quite enough for her. When he had 
done the trick and was out, she insisted on 
getting in ; and when Signora insisted no 
[ no ] 


SIGNORA 


one resisted. So in she got and closed the 
door upon herself, and a moment later was 
propelling the reptile across the stage in the 
most approved fashion. When she emerged 
from the monster she received a round of 
applause and, at the suggestion of the 
German mezzo, who was one of the Rhine- 
daughters, she was appointed understudy to 
the Rheingold serpent. During the rest 
of the season she hoped every time the 
work was announced for a performance, 
that the boy would fail to appear. But, 
alas, he was as punctual as clock work. 

However, Signora was destined to make 
her debut sooner and in a better way than 
she expected, and in full view of an audience. 
Among Signora’s special pets were the 
Lohengrin swans — for there were two of 
them. Yes, it required two in order to have 
one arrive properly with the Knight of the 
Holy Grail in time to save Elsa. There 
were a big and a little swan, both of them 
made of cloth stretched on wire framing and 
covered with cotton for feathers. They and 
the silver shell boats were mounted on 
[ III ] 


SIGNORA 


trucks which were hidden from the audience’s 
view by blue painted strips of canvas — ‘'set 
water ” — representing the river Scheldt, and 
another strip which formed its grassy bank. 
Under each truck were seats for two men, 
who shoved the apparatus along with their 
feet, the man on the front seat steering the 
swan and the boat by an iron rod attached 
to one of the wheels. 

The smaller of the two swans, with a lay 
figure dressed up in a Lohengrin costume, 
was propelled across the stage, far back near 
the drop, so that Lohengrin was first seen 
as if approaching from far up the river, and 
then disappearing around a bend. A few 
minutes later, the big swan and boat, with 
the Knight of the Holy Grail, issued forth 
from the wings and drew proudly up at the 
river bank. Then Lohengrin sang “ Leb 
Wohl Mein Schwan, Mein Lieber Schwan ” ; 
one of the men on the truck pulled a wire 
attached to the swan’s beak, which made the 
bird gracefully incline its head as if in an- 
swer to its master’s words ; the knight in his 
silver armor stepped ashore ; the swan and 

[ II2 ] 


SIGNORA 


the boat were shoved off behind the scenes ; 
and Elsa’s champion had arrived. What 
would the nobles and burghers of Brabant, 
to say nothing of King Henry and Elsa 
herself, have thought of him had they known 
how he managed it ? 

One night, when the small truck was be- 
ing tried to see if it worked all right, before 
being shoved on the stage, it was discov- 
ered that the rod supporting the lay figure 
had become loosened so that the miniature 
Lohengrin wobbled most outrageously. This 
was hardly consistent with the dignity of 
an emissary from the Holy Grail. What 
was to be done at this critical moment ? 
The audience would be sure to laugh at 
this wobbling Lohengrin. The stage man- 
ager was in despair when his eyes sud- 
denly lighted upon Signora, who was strut- 
ting about in her silver armor. A sudden 
idea. A few quick, sharp orders, and a couple 
of “props” had torn off the lay figure. Then 
the stage manager took Signora in his arms 
and lifted her on to the truck. He said 
^ nothinpf to her and she made no resistance. 

[ 113 ] 


SIGNORA 


She knew exactly what was expected of her. 
Resting her hands on her sword in front of 
her as a brace, she drew herself up and 
waited. 

The chorus was beginning to act as if it 
saw something unusual up the river. It was 
crowding towards the shore and shouting, 
“ Ein Schwan, Ein Schwan ! The stage 
manager flicked his handkerchief as a signal 
to the man on the truck, and a moment later 
Signora, drawn by the cotton swan, was sail- 
ing down the Scheldt. Nervous? Not a 
bit. It was the happiest moment of her life. 
And mounted on the big truck in the wings 
was ‘‘Jean,” the Lohengrin of the evening, 
waving his hand to her. 


[ ”4 ] 


VIII 



nora was that of simple worship. What- 
ever claims he might have on her, because 
it was he who found her at the stage door 
and took her in and harbored her, he 
never urged. An old Italian opera chorus 
singer, the prima donnas, tenors and other 
great artists were to him queens and princes ; 
and when they made Signora practically one 
of themselves, she too became a queen in 
his eyes. 

He was her very devoted slave. That he 
stood in any way in the relation to her of a 
father he never suggested. Authority over 
her he never thought to exert. The very 
first night, when she so unceremoniously 
entered the opera house, she had lain in the 

[115] 


SIGNORA 


lap of the great prima donna, Mme. Carave. 
From that moment she had seemed to 
Yudels immeasurably above him. He 
worshipped her and tended her with loving 
care — but very much as a body-guard would 
a princess royal. 

To her he simply was Yudels. It was 
Yudels this, Yudels that, just as with the 
other members of the various mechanical 
departments of the opera house. If there 
was anything she wanted to do, she did it. 
She never stopped to ask him about it. 
Yet he was ever watching over her like a 
faithful servitor. She flitted elfishly in and 
out — from room to room, from fly gallery 
to fly gallery without restraint. But the 
faithful Yudels always knew where she was 
and what she was doing, and ever was 
watching that no harm came to her. Yet 
that she was in the least degree responsible 
to him never entered her little head nor his 
big one. 

I do not suppose I could give a better 
idea of how completely Signora grew up to 
be part of the life behind the scenes of the 


SIGNORA 


opera house, than by harking back several 
years, and telling what occurred the first 
time she ever was taken outdoors. Pos- 
sibly this would be sufficiently indicated by 
the simple statement that she was far 
enough along to jab the “ Siegfried ” dragon 
and to ride the “Walkiire” hobby horses 
before she even knew that there was such a 
thing as outdoors. But the fact is Yudels 
spent practically all his time in the opera 
house. 

Perhaps it would be exaggerating to say 
that he never left it ; but it almost seemed 
so. His whole world was that part of the 
building which lay behind the curtain. 
And why should he need another? He 
could wander through a royal palace or a 
mediaeval dungeon ; over a mountain fast- 
ness with distant views of Walhalla, or 
through a smiling landscape ; along a 
Spanish bastion or a Flemish river ; 
through an Egyptian temple or the grotto 
of the V enusberg. T rue, all these were mere 
painted drops and wings ; but to him they 
had long since become part of a real world, 

[ 117 ] 


SIGNORA 


and one in which he felt very much at home 
and absolutely comfortable. For, no matter 
in what part of the globe he happened to be 
at the moment, he could drop into an old 
capacious leather-covered easy-chair, near 
the property room, and rest. If he went 
out into the real outdoors and it happened 
to storm, his umbrella might be blown in- 
side out and he might get wet or cold. 
But if it stormed inside the opera house he 
was all right. The most violent wind was 
nothing more than a sound produced by the 
wind machine — a paddle wheel revolving 
against a piece of ribbed silk. The most 
vivid lightning was only flashed from a 
stereopticon, and the loudest and most 
threatening peal of thunder merely the 
thumping of the thunder box or the rolling 
of a few cannon balls down the trough of 
the “rabbit hutch.” It was noisy but safe. 
And so he remained for a long period of his 
existence, part of a world which completely 
satisfied him and into which he fitted per- 
fectly. The idea of leaving it, even tem- 
porarily, rarely occurred to him. Moreover 

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SIGNORA 


something always was going on there — 
rehearsing during the day and performances 
during the night, or, if no rehearsals or 
performances, the work of preparation. 
Scenery was being modelled and painted, 
properties devised, costumes designed and 
manufactured. A jack of all trades like 
Yudels might be called on any moment ; 
and so no one thought it strange that 
Signora had never so much as poked her 
nose outdoors, and never expressed any 
wish to do so — no more than if she had 
known nothing about outdoors ; which was 
exactly the case. 

She could dance around in her Carmen” 
costume; strut about in her “ Lohengrin ” 
armor; ride the “Walkure” horses; and 
lustily jab the dragon ; but of any other 
world except of that behind the scenes she 
apparently never had heard. If she ever 
had learned of flowers other than those cut 
out of colored paper and attached to wire 
stems ; trees other than those of painted can- 
vas or cut in profile with paper leaves to make 
them look more natural ; waves that worked 

[ 119 ] 


SIGNORA 


on hinges ; or mountains, the heights of 
which were reached on ladders from the 
wings and crossed on “ platforms ” ; nothing 
she ever said indicated the fact. Life 
behind the scenes of the opera house appar- 
ently was all she knew about. Yudels him- 
self was so much a part of that life, or it was 
so much a part of him, it is doubtful if he 
ever had spoken to her about outdoors. 
She knew the moon merely as a light effect. 
If she wanted moonlight she pulled a rope 
which raised a round disc up to a circular 
hole in one of the drops, then she climbed 
up to the electric switchboard and turned on 
the “blues.” If ever she stopped to con- 
sider that there might be a moon elsewhere 
she probably took it for granted that, wher- 
ever it might be, someone else pulled the 
rope and turned on the “blues.” Had she 
any conception of the majesty of a storm ? 
Probably not ; but, if she ever thought of it 
at all, she must have conceived it simply as 
the result of a bigger stereopticon, a larger 
thunder box with a more powerful man to 
thump it, or a “rabbit hutch” with more 
[ 120 ] 


SIGNORA 


cannon balls and a longer zinc-lined trough. 
But whatever her ideas were on these sub- 
jects, providing she had any at all, no one 
knew ; for it never occurred to anyone to 
inquire. More or less they were all crea- 
tures of the same world as she. It was 
bounded by four walls, but it was a pretty 
big world after all. 

And so things went along with Signora 
until, of a warm afternoon, one spring, 
Yudels entered the wardrobe department 
and asked, much as if he was making a requi- 
sition for an operatic costume, for a child’s 
hat and coat. They were quickly but 
inquiringly forthcoming. Yudels answered 
that he had ordered a carriage and intended 
to take Signora out to the park. Then for 
the first time, as the news was passed around 
behind the scenes, it was realized that Sig- 
nora never had been beyond the painted 
world of the opera house. What would she 
think of outdoors ? 

When the carriage arrived she got into it 
much as she would into the back of the 
“ Rheingold ” serpent, and when the door 

[ I2I ] 


SIGNORA 


was closed after her, and the vehicle started 
off, she was, for all she knew, rehearsing a 
novel mechanical contrivance for a new 
opera. The motion was so swift that the 
objects flew past the small windows too ra- 
pidly for anything to become fixed in her 
mind. 

Yudels had ordered the driver just where 
to stop after entering the park. The car- 
riage pulled up at a knoll crowned by a rustic 
summer house. The old chorus singer car- 
ried Signora up the knoll in his arms and 
stood her on one of the benches. She 
looked on the prospect below, rubbed her 
eyes and then looked again. “ Why, Yud- 
els,” she exclaimed, “ the scene’s all set for 
the first act. When does it begin ? And 
look — all the trees are practical. But some- 
how they don’t look as natural as those at 
the opera house. I wonder who cut out all 
those leaves ? That must have been a job. 
And what big grass mats ! ” 

In the dell was a lake. A pretty stiff 
breeze was blowing and kicking up a smart 
little sea. Suddenly Signora saw the lake, 
[ 122 ] 


SIGNORA 


‘‘Yudels!” she exclaimed, “look at those 
waves ! How do they work them ? I don’t 
see any hinges. Who does all this anyhow ? ” 
Yudels was so accustomed to seeing new 
worlds created by scene painters, property 
masters, carpenters, and electricians that he 
was obliged to stop and think a moment. 
Even then he answered, with some hesita- 
tion, “ It was — er — er — er — God, Signora.” 

“My!” she exclaimed with a ring of 
admiration in her voice, “What a stage 
manager he is ! Why haven’t I ever heard 
of him before ? ” 

* Yudels was spared the possible embarrass- 
ment of an explanation by the sudden 
appearance of a swan boat around a point 
of rock in the lake. Signora saw it at once. 
“ Yudels,” she cried out, “ see, they are going 
to give ‘ Lohengrin.’ There’s the swan 
and the boat ; but it can’t be a dress rehear- 
sal because Lohengrin hasn’t his armor on.” 

In asking these questions she turned her 
head toward Yudels and in doing so saw a 
policeman coming along the path. “ What 
character is that ? ” she asked, eagerly. “ J 
[ 123 ] 


SIGNORA 


never saw that costume in any opera. And 
such a funny helmet!” Yudels explained : 

“ Oh, he’s not in the opera at all 1” — “A 
policeman ? And he looks after all the bad 
people ? ” Is he a tenor, and are all the 
bad people baritones ?” — “ No 1” — “ But I 
thought all villains were baritones, and were 
killed by tenors. They are at the opera 
house.” 

Yudels took Signora by the hand, and to- 
gether they strolled down the path, and fur- 
ther into the park. The child’s exclamations, 
her comparison of what she saw with things 
as they were at the opera house, did not 
surprise him at all. He had lived so long 
in the world of the stage, that he himself 
looked at things much from the same point 
of view as Signora. To him, too, the trees 
in the park did not look as real as the trees 
in the opera house. The artificial was nat- 
ural to her. She had grown up amid it, and 
this was her first glimpse at something else. 

As they wandered along, they heard the 
strains of a barrel organ. Turning the cor- 
ner Signora suddenly cried out, “ Oh, there 
[ 124 ] 


SIGNORA 


are the ‘Walkiire’ horses. They’re teach- 
ing a lot of new boys and girls how to ride 
them. But why don’t they play the ‘Ride of 
the “ Walkures ” That was how her first 
view of a merry-go-round impressed her. 
Near the merry-go-round stood a man with 
a bunch of red toy balloons fastened to a 
stick by short strings and floating buoyantly 
in the air. Signora stared at them with 
eyes even wider open than when she had 
first seen the wooden horses. 

“What’s the matter, Signora?” asked 
Yudels. 

“Why, Yudels,” she replied, pointing to 
the balloons, “did you ever see such big cur- 
rants ! Where do they grow them and why 
haven’t we ever had any ? ” 

Nothing would convince her that they 
were not currants, short of Yudels’ buying 
one, letting her feel it, and sending it up in 
the air. She watched it ascend with won- 
derment. Yudels gave her a ride on the 
carousel, but she did not think it compared 
with sliding down an inclined platform in 
front of a cloud-drop, and on one of the 

[ 125 ] 


SIGNORA 


wooden “ Walkiire” horses. And the bar- 
rel organ ? She thought it vile. “ Why 
don't they get our orchestra to come up 
here and play for them ? ” she asked. 

Some statues which they saw in the course 
of their stroll puzzled her greatly. “Aren’t 
they ugly,” she exclaimed. “ What kind of 
idols are they ? What operas are they in ? 
Do they leave them out all night ? I should 
think if they got rained on, that brown paint 
would wash off.” Yudels never had been 
obliged to answer so many questions or ex- 
plain so much. 

As he did not know how soon they might 
be outdoors again, he thought it just as 
well to prolong their stay. On a knoll a lit- 
tle way beyond the statues which Signora 
had thought so hideous (she did not know 
it but there were many who agreed with 
her), was a little place for eating. It com- 
manded a pretty prospect, and there Yudels 
and Signora sat down at a table and had 
their supper. It was getting late but neither 
of them minded that. If it had been a “ Car- 
men ” night, nothing could have persuaded 
[ 126] 


SIGNORA 


Signora to go to bed before the end of the 
opera. And so they sat there till it grew 
dark, and the lights began to flicker along 
the walks and through the foliage. 

Suddenly Yudels felt a little hand close 
tightly around his arm. With the other 
hand Signora was pointing. Yudels fol- 
lowed the direction. “ Look, look,” she 
cried. ‘‘ They’re beginning to hoist up the 
moon !” 

He explained to her, that this was the 
real moon and was not hoisted. It rose in 
the heavens of its own accord. Signora 
stared at it, as the disc rose higher and fuller 
above the trees. It was not a very brilliant 
moon. Its orb was rather pale and watery. 

So that’s the real moon ? ” 

'‘Yes,” said Yudels, “that’s the real 
moon ! What do you think of it ? ” 

“ I don’t think it compares with our moon 
at the opera house,” she answered very de- 
cidedly. “ Ours has such a nice, bluish 
light.” 

Then Yudels concluded it was time to go 
home. 


[ 127 ] 


IX 



never felt so big in 
her life as one autumn when she was told 
that she would be taken along with the 
company “ on tour.” She watched the 
scenery carted away, the properties being 
boxed and the costumes being stowed in 
huge trunks with intense interest, and was 
all agog with excitement during the many 
preparations for the tour, which was to 
extend across the entire continent. 

‘‘You will see Indians,” said Planky. 

“ Will they scalp us ? ” she asked inno- 
cently. 

“ No,” said Planky, “ not unless we sing 
badly.” 

“ Then, Planky,” said Signora, her eyes 
full of mischief, “ you had better have your 
head shaved,” and she danced away laugh- 
ing into the wings. 

[ 128 ] 


SIGNORA 


They made what seemed to Signora a 
very long run ; for they had to remain over- 
night in the train until they reached a large 
city, where they put up at a building which 
was even larger than the opera house in 
which Signora had spent the greater part of 
her life. It was an enormous hotel and a 
theatre all in one ; and through a private 
entrance the artists who lived at the hotel 
could go directly from it to the theatre in 
which they were to sing. 

The artists were so glad to have the 
journey over that they soon threw off the 
strain of it and were in high spirits. 

“ It seems like being on terra firma again 
after a sea voyage,” said Jean when he 
reached the hotel. He was in a rollicking 
mood and before the performance that 
night he played one of his characteristic 
tricks. 

Some of the principals had preceded the 
main body of the company. They were 
those who were to appear in the opening 
performance. Among them was Madame 
Nortona, another famous American prima 
[ 129 ] 


SIGNORA 


donna, and so great a Wagner singer that 
she had been especially engaged by the 
great composer’s widow to sing in some of 
the principal performances at Bayreuth. 
She was one of the greatest Brunnhildes 
and Isoldes on the stage, and she not only 
sang and acted these rdles superbly but 
she was a large, handsome women as well 
— an ideal impersonator of the characters. 

The special pet of this Brunnhilde and 
Isolde was a small black French poodle 
named Taffy. Signora was in her room 
with her at the hotel when she was getting 
ready to leave it for the performance. 
Taffy was very restless, as he always was 
when he knew he was to be left behind. 
He ran to the door, looked appealingly up 
into his mistress’s face and gave a series of 
short, sharp barks. Madame Nortona’s 
attempts to pacify him were useless, and 
finally she and Signora slipped out of the 
door, shut it quickly behind them and locked 
it. As they walked down the corridor they 
could hear Taffy’s bark growing fainter and 
fainter. 


[ 130 ] 


SIGNORA 


“ Poor fellow,” exclaimed Madame 
Nortona, “ he is so lonely. It is a shame 
to leave him, but he would run out on the 
stage after me — and what would the audi- 
ence say to see Brunnhilde followed about 
by a French poodle ! ” 

She and Signora made their way to the 
prima donna’s dressing-room. To their 
utter surprise, as they entered, they heard 
Taffy’s bark from under the piano. It was 
short and sharp, apparently unmistakable. 
What dog but Taffy had a bark pitched in 
just that key ? The prima donna was 
completely mystified. “ Taffy, you naughty 
dog,” she cried, “ how did you get there ? 
Come right out from under that piano this 
instant.” 

Then from under the instrument there 
crept on all fours none other than Jean, the 
great tenor, who had found it impossible to 
resist the temptation of playing one of his 
animal tricks on the great prima donna. 
Madame Nortona and Signora were con- 
vulsed, and Jean joined them in peals of 
laughter after he had risen to his feet. 

[ 131 ] 


SIGNORA 


On this tour Jean and Edouard were, as 
always, inseparable. When the artists 
wanted to limber up their voices or do a 
little rehearsing they went from the hotel to 
the theatre dressing-rooms, and soon Sig- 
nora was roaming around there with as 
much freedom as in her opera house home. 
The two brothers usually began the day’s 
work playing jokes on each other. One 
morning Signora strolled into their dress- 
ing-room. Jean had just struck a chord on 
the piano. Edouard sang a phrase. Jean 
sprang to his feet apparently in great indig- 
nation. “ Bah, Edouard,” he exclaimed, 
“ you sing like a pig this morning ! ” 

Edouard pushed him aside, sat down at 
the piano himself and struck a chord. 
Jean sang a phrase. Edouard was on his 
feet in an instant. “Bah, Jean,” he 
exclaimed, “ you sing like a pig this 
morning ! ” Then they both turned to 
Signora. “ There is no hope for either of 
us,” Jean said to her. “ No,” continued 
Edouard, “we shall never make a success in 
grand opera. Do you think, Signora, that 
[ 132 ] 


SIGNORA 


if I went around with a hand-organ, and 
had Jean do his monkey tricks, we could 
make a living?” Then both laughed and 
went to work seriously. Thus did the 
greatest Tristan and greatest Wotan begin 
their day’s rehearsal. 

About a fortnight later the special train 
on which the company traveled brought 
them to a Southern city in which there was 
no theatre large enough for their perform- 
ances. When they were taken to the place 
where the operas were to be given they 
found it was a large tabernacle, with solid 
pews which could not be removed. Part of 
the stage and the dressing-rooms had been 
built over the tops of the pews, and the 
workmen were just then engaged in piling 
up hymn-books in an out-of-the-way place 
behind the scenes. 

The audience began arriving and seating 
itself in the pews. As Signora peeped 
through a slit in the curtain she noticed 
that a great many young women wore broad 
blue ribbon badges with gold lettering. 
She called the stage manager’s attention to 

[ 133 ] 


SIGNORA 


it, and his curiosity was sufficiently aroused 
for him to make inquiries. He came back 
grinning. What do you think ? ” he said ; 
“ one of the wealthy men of the place has 
bought up part of the house and has reserved 
it for the most popular school-teachers 
chosen by vote here and in the neighboring 
towns and villages. Those badges read, 

‘ Grand Opera at the Tabernacle — Carave 
as Carmen — To show how much you are 
loved at home ! ’ 

“Then, Signora,” he continued, “do you 
see that cloth stretched in front of part of 
the gallery ? It really is very touching. 
The same man has bought up part of the 
gallery and presented the seats to the blind 
boys and girls in one of the asylums here. 
As they are blind they could not see the 
stage, anyhow, so he has had that part of 
the gallery curtained off in order that people 
won’t stare at them as if they were animals, 
instead of paying attention to the perform- 
ance. I think the man who is giving those 
poor young people such a treat deserves a 
medal. But, do you know, I heard some- 

[ 134 ] 


SIGNORA 


thing funny, too. A boy was going up- 
stairs to the gallery when an usher shouted 
after him : ‘ Heh, there, you, young feller ! 
Where ye’r goin’ to? You’s ain’t blind!’ 
It all seems such a queer mixture with grand 
opera.” 

Signora often had seen Carave shudder 
at the dropping of her hand-glass in her 
dressing-room, and not recover from her 
apprehension until she found that it was 
not broken. Time and time again on this 
tour the child saw evidence of the great 
prima donna’s superstitions. Attached to a 
chain around her neck she wore a Hindu 
amulet made of a blue stone. Often when 
talking with Signora she would hold this 
amulet up to the light and exclaim : 
“ Ah ! you see the rays come through. It 
will be a lucky day.” Or, “ It is opaque. 
There is bad luck in store for me.” Then 
if everything passed off well she would say, 
'‘You see it all comes out according to the 
amulet ” ; but if she had predicted ill-luck 
and nothing untoward happened she would 
say nothing. Like other superstitious 

[ 135 ] 


SIGNORA 


people, she made much of everything that 
came out according to her predictions, but 
kept quiet when they were not fulfilled. 

Her principal amusements on nights when 
she was not singing, or when she was not 
behind the scenes listening to others, was to 
hold spiritualistic seances. It did not trans- 
pire at these that there was any one in 
particular in the spirit world regarding 
whom she wanted to make inquiries. She 
seemed interested in a general way in 
finding out what was going on there, and it 
fitted in with her mystic character. For 
there was a dash of the weird in Caravd’s 
make-up. 

One evening in one of the large cities she 
sent for Signora to come to her room. 
She was very much excited. “ Signora,” 
she exclaimed, “there is a splendid medium 
in this city. I have sent for him. He is 
coming here this evening. We will have a 
grand seance. I want you to take word to 
all the members of the company who are 
not singing to come to my room. I would 
not have them miss it for the world.” 

[ 13b ] 


SIGNORA 


As a result, Signora, the American prima 
donna (not Madame Nortona, but “ Mrs. 
Emma”), Jean and Edouard and Planky 
met in Carave’s room at the hotel at the 
appointed hour. The lights were burning 
low, there was a heavy odor of incense, and 
on the table she had a hideous idol. They 
seated themselves about the room, Caravd 
occupying a large chair back of the table 
and opposite the door, toward which she 
gazed with a rapt, expectant look. No 
one spoke, for Carave seemed to want 
silence. 

Five minutes passed, then ten, then half 
an hour ; the medium had not arrived. 
Madame Caravd’s guests were becoming a 
little uneasy. They were not accustomed 
to sit still so long. She, however, remained 
silent, still rapt and expectant. Another 
quarter of an hour passed. Then Carave 
herself began to show signs of impatience. 
She tapped with her foot on the floor. 

“ Perhaps,” suggested Signora, “ if it is a 
spirit it may have come in through the key- 
hole, and be here without our knowing it.” 

[ 137 ] 


SIGNORA 


Planky, who was sitting next to Signora, 
pinched her arm to make her keep quiet. 
To avenge herself she whispered into his 
ear : “ Do you think when the seance begins, 
if it ever does, the spirit will say, ‘We know 
even up there that Planky and “ Mrs. Emma ” 
have “ ze two most beautiful noses in ze 
company ? ” ’ ” Planky couldn’t help a 
broad smile, and Caravd punished him with 
a frown. 

The medium was now an hour late. The 
lights were still burning low ; there was 
still a faint odor of incense, but even Carave 
was not as rapt and expectant in her attitude 
as she had been. Finally Jean ventured to 
ask : “ Madame Carave, what is the name 
of the medium you are expecting ? ” 

“ Moses.” 

“The real Moses?” 

“No, Monsieur Jean, the Moses who 
lives in this town. Perhaps you will go 
down to the hotel desk and find out why 
he has not come.” 

“ Did they give you his address, Ma- 
dame?” 


[ 138] 


SIGNORA 


‘‘No; I did not ask it. They said he 
was a great medium, so I wrote to him and 
had the letter mailed.” 

“ And how did you address it, Madame ?” 
“ Oh, just ‘ Moses.’ ” 

“ And you think he will come ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I do not think so, Madame, and, as it is 
now getting quite late, allow me to suggest 
that we have something more substantial 
than a spirit and that you all join me at supper. 
After that my brother Edouard, who, as 
you know, imitates the sounds of instru- 
ments so beautifully will show you how 
Pfeiffenschneider plays the trombone in the 
death scene in the ‘ Gotterdammerung.’ ” 
Then the lights were turned up and the 
spiritualistic seance was over. 

On this tour Signora became better 
acquainted with some members of the com- 
pany than she had been at the Opera House. 
In the close quarters of the special train 
she naturally was brought in closer contact 
with them. Madame Nortona, for instance, 
took the child on her lap one day, and, while 

[ 139 ] 


SIGNORA 


the train was speeding through sugar-cane 
plantations on its way from the South to 
the far West, told her something of her own 
career — how she (remember, she now was 
one of the greatest prima donnas) had 
made her debut with Gilmore’s band, the 
band master handing her up to the platform 
with the encouraging remark, “ Now, little 
girl, don’t be afraid ; sing right out ; ” and 
how when she decided to go on the operatic 
stage she had studied in Italy and first sung 
in a theatre in a little Italian town during a 
winter season when her dressing-room was 
so cold that she had to carry a brazier of 
charcoal with her from her lodgings. She 
also told Signora that when she had 
advanced enough to sing in London she 
had been asked to learn one of the greatest 
rdles in opera, Valentine, in “ Les Hugue- 
nots,” in less than a week; and how Jean 
and Edouard, who were in the company, 
had helped her get through the great 
duet, in which even an experienced singer’s 
excitement is apt to run away with her — 
how Edouard stood in the wings by the 
[ 140 ] 


SIGNORA 


window, and called out, whenever she went 
over to his side of the stage, Non si 
allegro!” while Jean would whisper, when 
she was singing with him, Pas si vite 1 ” 
so that she would not reach the climax too 
soon. 

Then there was Madame Lembrich, one 
of the greatest singers of brilliant rdles. 
She had been most fortunate at the outset 
of her career in marrying a thorough musi- 
cian, Professor Klengl, who had watched 
over her voice like a nurse over a baby, and 
had never allowed her to study a rdle which 
might impair its flexibility and beauty. He 
had merged his own career completely in 
hers, and even had hyphenated her name 
with his ; his visiting-cards reading ** Pro- 
fessor Guillaume Klengl-Lembrich,” 

One day Madame Lembrich took Signora 
into her compartment. “ Do you know,” 
she said to her during their chat, '‘who my 
severest critic is? Klengl. He is in the 
audience every time I sing, and after every 
act he comes into my dressing-room. The 
moment I look at his face I can tell whether 

[ 141 ] 


SIGNORA 


he has been satisfied with me or not. You 
know he has a very long nose. If that nose 
looks the same as usual, I have been doing 
all right. If it looks extra long then I know 
I am going to get a scolding. Yes, Klengl’s 
nose always has been my artistic barometer. 
It is a great thing for a prima donna to have 
a husband with a long nose.” 

A great favorite with the company, 
because she was so chic and pretty, was a 
young German singer. Her real name was 
Fritzi Schiff, but she was so tantalizingly 
arch and coquettish that by way of pleasantry 
they called her “Shifty Fritz.” 

The company also included, beside Mad- 
ame Nortona and “ Mrs. Emma,” a bright 
young American singer, named Susan 
Adam, who sometimes amused herself riding 
on a locomotive. 

Then there was an excellent French tenor, 
a most graceful Romeo and Faust. His 
name was Galeza, and like most French 
artists, although he had been in this country 
several seasons, he spoke English very 
imperfectly. In the South of France he had 
[ 142 ] 


SIGNORA 


a farm, of which he was very proud, and 
when he tried to explain to Signora how 
plentifully it was supplied with live stock he 
would exclaim enthusiastically, “ Ah, yes. 
Signora, it ees very cow, very sheep, very 

pig ! ” 

The conductor of the German operas was 
a good-looking and popular young fellow, 
whom everybody called by his first name, 
Walter. Each car on the special train was 
lettered, and the artists were assigned to 
their cars by these letters. One day when 
the company was boarding the train, Walter 
was seen parading up and down the plat- 
form with an enormous placard, “ Car B.” 
When Signora asked him what he was up 
to, he replied with mock seriousness, ‘‘ I 
am the conductor.” 

Planky also was in his element on this 
tour. Usually a crowd of curiosity-seekers 
gathered at the station when the company 
was leaving. As the train drew out Planky 
usually stood on the steps of his car, and, with 
one of his grand gestures, let his voice roll 
out for the benefit of the awe-struck crowd. 

[ 143 ] 


X 



got farther West the settlements became 
fewer and fewer until the train reached 
the Great American Desert, where there 
were only small way stations in the midst 
of a dreary plain. Sometimes even these 
small stations were so far apart that the 
train would have to stop at a water tank, 
right in the midst of the desert, without any 
settlement in sight. Then all the members 
of the company would get out and stretch 
their legs. Caravd, whose spirits were irre- 
pressible, would begin dancing the “ Haben- 
era”or the Seguidilla ” out on the plain, 
or the company would start an impromptu 
performance for the benefit of the train 
hands. When the engineer blew the whis- 
tle there was a lively scramble for the cars, 

[ 144 ] 


SIGNORA 


and it was amusing to see big men like 
Edouard and Planky, who usually walked 
the stage with majestic stride, making a race 
for the platform. 

With the company was a German tenor, a 
capital Siegfried and very good as Lohen- 
grin. On one of the stops in the desert a 
family of pigs approached the train, and, 
after gazing at the unusual sight, quietly 
continued rooting for food. What it was 
that the German tenor found so attractive 
in this pig family no one ever has been able 
to find out, but he became so lost in contem- 
plation of the porkers that the engineer had 
to whistle three times before the tenor 
awoke from his reverie. While he was 
standing there the librarian of the company, 
Lionel Mapleson, who always had his camera 
handy, took a snapshot, which afterward was 
passed around to the great amusement of 
all, and received the title, “ Siegfried and 
the American Dragons.” 

One of the wags of the company was an 
American baritone who originally had been 
in the dry-goods business in Philadelphia. 

[ 145 ] 


SIGNORA 


His fame rested chiefly on his remarkably 
vivid performances of Wagnerian rdles like 
Telramund in “ Lohengrin ” and Kurwenal 
in “Tristan,” in which he was unexcelled. 
His name was Grispham, and after he had 
made his reputation he used to recall, with 
great glee, a remark passed upon him by an 
old Quaker merchant of Philadelphia. 
While he was still in the dry-goods business 
he passed this merchant’s store, and the 
merchant remarked to a bystander : “ There 
goes that fellow Grispham. He’ll never 
amount to much. He spends too much 
time with those singing people.” 

If, on one of the stops in the desert, there 
happened to be a hand-car around, Grispham 
would jump on it and start off for a ride 
down the road. Once in the dead of night 
the train came to a full stop. It was pitch- 
dark outside and there was absolute silence. 
The effect of the train’s stopping after the 
dreary ride through the desert, the feeling 
that there was nothing around them but an 
unending stretch of barren plain, the black- 
ness without, and the silence, caused a 
[ 146 ] 


SIGNORA 


feeling of fear to descend upon the operatic 
artists, so sensitive to every strange phenom- 
enon. Imagine their fright when there was 
a sudden howl on the plain and a voice rang 
through the cars, “ We’re held up by cow- 
boys ! ” 

There was a scramble on the part of every 
one to hide valuables under mattresses and 
cushions ; and then a wild shriek as a figure 
appeared at the door of one of the cars — a 
figure surmounted by a sombrero whose 
broad brim cast a shadow over the cowboy 
highwayman’s face, while he pointed a pis- 
tol at the cowering group. Where was the 
brave Tristan then? or the peerless Lohen- 
grin ? or Rhadames, who, in his day, in Egypt, 
had put a whole army of Ethiopians to flight ? 
All trembling at the muzzle of — a brass key. 

For it dawned upon them that it was not 
a pistol at all in the highwayman’s hand, 
and that the highwayman himself bore a 
striking resemblance to the baritone who 
came from the peaceful city of Philadelphia. 
Then the tension relaxed, and they all made 
a rush for him. But he dashed down the 

[ 147 ] 


SIGNORA 


steps and out into the darkness, where he 
stood giving them Alberich’s mocking laugh 
from ‘‘Siegfried.” After this episode Mr. 
David Grispham, baritone, always was 
known as “ Arizona Dave.” 

Meanwhile other members of the com- 
pany, who had not been held up by “ Arizona 
Dave,” had scrambled out of the cars, and 
with the aid of lanterns had heaped up a lot 
of dead cactus and set fire to it. Flames 
were leaping up through the quiet night and 
illuminating the desert. Suddenly into 
the lurid light there sprang a small, lithe 
figure that began dancing around the fire. 
It was Berteri, the ballet master. A few 
minutes later some of the ballet girls joined 
him, and then was seen such a fire dance as 
never had been witnessed in the Great 
American Desert. The artists and chorus 
formed a circle around the dancers and 
watched the scene, with its weird light effects. 
They had found out that a bridge ahead of 
them had broken down, and that there would 
be a wait of five or six hours ; so they kept 
up the performance, and dawn was breaking 
[148] 


SIGNORA 


before the dancers stopped and they all 
walked back to the train. 

As they approached it one of the car win- 
dows was opened. There, sitting up in her 
berth and looking out at them with a broad 
grin, was the German prima donna, who had 
slept peacefully through the whole experi- 
ence, hold-up and all. 

“ Guten Morgen, Carrie ! ” she called out 
when they came within hailing distance. 

Afterward they got Grispham with his 
sombrero, and aiming at an imaginary object 
with his key pistol, to pose for a snapshot, 
which they called “ Making a Hit.” 

Near the bridge was a little telegraph 
station. The bridge crossed a stream called 
the Pecos River. The telegraph operator 
was also Justice of the Peace, and over the 
station he had the comprehensive sign, “ All 
the law West of the Pecos.” 

As he rarely saw any one at his lonely 
outpost save a few cowboys and Indians, the 
night performance of the operatic company 
around the fire was a new and exciting 
experience for him. He was so elated that 

[ 149 ] 


SIGNORA 


before the company continued he presented 
Carave with a cat. The prima donna now 
had quite a menagerie. She was the pos- 
sessor of a parrot which occasionally used 
language more remarkable for expressiveness 
than elegance ; of a monkey which num- 
bered among its accomplishments a taste for 
smoking cigarettes ; and now the cat, which 
during the rest of the tour bothered the 
company by straying away on various occa- 
sions and making it necessary for an exciting 
chase to be held. 

This menagerie of Carave’s led to one of 
her remarks that nearly convulsed the com- 
pany. They had arrived on the Pacific 
Coast and had been giving performances a 
fortnight. Somehow the change of climate 
had not entirely agreed with the prima 
donna, and she was inclined to be a trifle 
moody. She complained about everything 
— the orchestra was out of tune, the stage 
was draughty, the scene was badly set, the 
audiences were not as dressy as they ought 
to be when she, Caravd, sang. 

“ Ah, Madame,” Planky interposed one 
[ 150] 


SIGNORA 


evening, “ you exaggerate. The weather is 
bad and you are not well. When the sun 
shines again you will be all right. But, any- 
how,” he continued banteringly, “ you should 
marry. You should have a husband to 
cheer you up in bad weather and when you 
are low-spirited.” 

“ A husband ! ” sneered the prima donna. 
“ Why should I need a husband ? I have 
a monkey that smokes, a parrot that swears, 
and a cat that stays out all night. Could 
you do better than that, Planky ? ” 

On the return trip across the continent 
the company took a different route and 
their stops were at larger cities. They had 
no impromptu dances in the dead of night 
around burning cactus in the Great Ameri- 
can Desert ; nor did they have any experi- 
ence with “ All the law West of the Pecos.” 
Fortunately, also, no admirer took it into his 
head to add to Carave’s menagerie. There 
was, however, some excitement in the course 
of the long journey west, in which live stock 
was concerned. 

The Italian chorus being composed of 

[ 151 ] 


SIGNORA 


people of somewhat singular habits had a car 
on the special train to itself. It was recog- 
nized that no citizen of another nationality 
could possibly have survived a whiff of the 
garlic-laden air in which the Italian chorus 
fairly reveled. 

Its members were a frugal lot and had 
carefully laid in a stock of provisions to 
last them half way across the continent. 
They had, besides garlic, various malodor- 
ous cheeses, and, most extraordinary of all, 
crates of live fowl which they stowed away 
in one end of the car, decapitating the unfor- 
tunate birds as appetite demanded. 

One day there was a great hullabaloo in 
the Italian chorus car. Fearing that a 
vendetta had broken loose, some of the men 
from the other cars made a hasty invasion 
of “ Little Italy on Wheels.” They found 
that the commotion had been caused by a 
chorister, who had killed three of his pre- 
cious fowl and then put the bodies in cold 
storage on top of the ice in the water-cooler. 
Even the Italian chorus, which had pa- 
tiently endured much, found this liberty 
quite beyond them. 

[ 152 ] 


SIGNORA 


One morning the company arrived in a 
large city in which, on the same evening, 
they were to give a performance in an enor- 
mous convention hall, with a seating capacity 
of twenty-five thousand. When they reach- 
ed the hall about eleven o’clock in the morn- 
ing they discovered a startling condition of 
affairs. 

It was Monday, and up to the previous 
Saturday night the great hall had been 
used for a horse show. Now, except that 
the horses had been removed, the building 
was in exactly the same condition as when 
the show had closed. The floor was cov- 
ered with tanbark and much of the building 
was divided into stalls — not orchestra stalls, 
but horse stalls. No stage, no proscenium, 
not a thing for handling the scenery had 
been provided, and there was not a seat to 
be found in the whole house. 

The problem that presented itself was to 
dig out the horse show, convert the hall 
into an opera house and have everything 
ready for “ Carmen” in the evening. 

Thirty mule carts and their colored 
[ IS3 ] 


SIGNORA 


drivers were soon brought into requisition to 
rake up and dig out the tanbark and cart it 
away. Meantime the expert stage hands, 
who always accompanied the troupe, were up 
on the iron girders, extemporizing a rigging 
loft for working the scenery ; and carpen- 
ters were putting up the stage and a set of 
dressing-rooms, which resembled a row of 
bathing-houses at a second-rate summer 
resort. 

While this was in progress a host of 
women went to work at sewing-machines, 
sewing huge strips of canvas together until 
they had made a carpet large enough to 
spread over the vast floor space and cover 
the last remnants of the horse show, which 
even the thirty mule carts and their drivers, 
with all their efforts, had been unable com- 
pletely to obliterate. Then nine thousand 
chairs were put in place on the floor and in 
the galleries — and the convention hall which 
had been occupied by a horse show was 
finally pronounced to be ready for “ Car- 
men.” 

Signora enjoyed the performances which 

[ 154 ] 


SIGNORA 


took place in college towns. During the 
day there was always a lot of students in 
line at the stage door, eager for a chance to 
go on as “ supers ” in the evening. They did 
it purely for the fun of the thing, and were 
always delighted when told that they could 
report for rehearsal an hour before the 
performance in the evening. When they 
had dressed themselves in the costumes 
provided, they came down on the stage, and 
there the “ super captain ” quickly drilled 
them in the various processions, and in- 
structed them as to the “business” which 
would be required of them. 

In a certain way it was saving to employ 
these students, and they were an apt lot 
and had a fresh and eager appearance, quite 
different from the professional “ super,” 
who usually is a forlorn individual, with 
spindle shanks and of anything but a mar- 
tial or dignified appearance. The students 
went through the opera with great vim, and 
after a stage battle, in which they partici- 
pated, there always remained a few casques 
and weapons on the floor as evidence of the 
[ 155 ] 


SIGNORA 


carnage. The only trouble about employ- 
ing the students was their insatiable fond- 
ness for carrying off '‘props ” to their rooms, 
as souvenirs of their appearances in grand 
opera. Anything they could lay their hands 
on and tuck under their coats was apt to dis- 
appear, in spite of all the watchfulness of the 
property master and the regular stage hands. 

One night the company gave “ Faust 
in Boston and, as usual in that intellectual 
city, there was a band of Harvard students 
for “supers.” It was a star performance. 
Carave was Marguerite; Jean was in the 
title Planky was Mephistopheles. It 

was a great night and the audience was 
most enthusiastic. After the performance, 
however, the property master was prancing 
around the stage calling down maledictions 
upon the head of the stage manager for 
having engaged a lot of mischievous students 
as “supers.” A breastplate had been dis- 
covered to be missing from the outfit of 
one of the soldiers, and who but a student 
“super,” he indignantly demanded, could 
possibly have carried it off? 

[ 156] 


SIGNORA 


Finally, when the property master had 
used up the English language, he started 
out with Planky and Signora for the hotel. 
As they were crossing the common there 
suddenly hove in sight a being wearing a 
breastplate, which flashed brilliantly in the 
light of the electric lamps in the middle of 
the green. 

As the property master was not a New 
Englander he did not mistake the appari- 
tion for one of the Puritan fathers come to 
life. He promptly made a grab for the 
breastplate. A moment later one of the 
students who had been acting as “ super ” 
at the performance, and who, in his desire 
to get away with the spoils, had daringly 
fastened the breastplate over his overcoat, 
had wriggled out of it and was sprinting 
across the common leaving the property 
master in triumphant possession of the lost 
armor — ^which he proudly carried back to 
the theatre. 


[ 157] 


XI 


night, some time after the 
company’s return, Yudels was awakened by 
a sense of something unusual. The door of 
his little apartment was open, and a bluish 
light seemed to have diffused itself through 
the house. Softly he got out of bed, stepped 
out on the fly gallery, and looked down. 
What he saw startled him. Far below on the 
stage, was a slender figure moving rapidly, 
yet always about the same spot. Yes, it was 
Signora. But what was she doing down 
there all alone ? Yudels was not long in 
deciding to find out for himself. 

He dressed hastily, and descended cau- 
tiously, and without making any noise, so 
that he remained unnoticed. Reaching the 
stage, he stood back within the deep shadow 
of the wall, and watched the girl. Evi- 
dently, she had gotten out of bed, had come 
down and turned on all the blue lights — the 
moon effect. The garden scene of “ Tristan 
[ 158 ] 


SIGNORA 


und Isolde” had remained set after an even- 
ing’s rehearsal, and well out on the stage, 
under the overhanging bough of a tree. Sig- 
nora was dancing, while softly singing to 
herself snatches from “ Carmen ,” the waltz 
from “Faust,” bits from the ballet music 
of “Les Huguenots,” and other tunes that 
could be danced to. 

Yudels ascended the steps leading to the 
balcony of King Mark’s palace (from which 
Isolde had waved her veil to the approach- 
ing Tristan). There he could remain hid- 
den from view and watch the proceedings. 
Signora seemed to have chosen a certain 
spot as a centre. Now she would glide up to 
it, and then back ; then with graceful little 
steps, circle around it, all the time with a 
pretty waving of the arms or inclination of 
the head or body, as if dancing with, and 
singing to, an unseen partner. Yudels was 
fascinated. Her dancing was a revelation. 
Such grace, such buoyancy, never had been 
seen on the stage of the opera house. She 
seemed almost an airy nothing, a sylvan 
sprite in the moonlight. Now she would 

[ 159] 


SIGNORA 


raise her long snow-white night robe a little, 
so that her feet flashed from beneath it, as 
she gaily went tripping forward ; now she 
dropped it as she glided back ; then it 
gathered about her in folds as she circled 
gracefully around. Whatever she did there 
was a marvellous symmetry about it all, for as 
she danced, she was a lithe, whip-like figure, 
that thrilled responsively all over with the 
slightest gesture or least change of rhythm 
in the dance. 

As Yudels watched her she suddenly 
stopped dancing and singing, and with a 
coquettish toss of the head began talking. 
She was looking down, and now that Yudels 
followed her look and words, he realized 
that she had been dancing with her own 
shadow for a moonlight partner. That ac- 
counted for her dancing about the spot 
where her shadow fell most distinctly, ap- 
proaching it till it almost vanished beneath 
her feet, then retreating until it became as 
large as herself. 

“ Ah, little shadow ! ” she exclaimed, “ how 
good of you to come to-night. So you knew 
[ i6o ] 


SIGNORA 


I had no playmate, and was lonely, and you 
have come to play with me. That is very 
sweet of you. And you will stay till the 
moon goes down ? That won’t be till I tell 
it to. It is my moon and does what I want 
it to — ^just like Jean and Edouard and Plan- 
ky and Yudels, and all the rest. They all 
do just what I want them to. I will give you 
a lesson in singing and dancing. ” Then 
she danced forward, and the shadow grad- 
ually grew smaller. “ Oh, you are hiding, 
are you ? Are you afraid I might scold 
you ?” (retreating) ‘‘ No ! There you are 
again. And so you want to know who 
I am? I am only ‘Signora.’ I’ve never 
stopped to think what else. I don’t know 
whether my mother was Brunnhilde, or Mar- 
guerite, or Elsa, or Juliette, or Carmen, — 
(singing) ‘ Pr^s les Remparts de Seville ’ 
— but I think she must have been Carmen. 
Ha-ha-ha-ha ! I’m telling you a story. 
I never had a mother except Yudels, and 
he’s only a sort of father. 

“You have no mother, either, little 
shadow, have you ? You are like me. That is 
[ i6i ] 


SIGNORA 

why I love you. Now let us dance and 
sing ! ” 

She circled lightly around. By and by 
she yawned. ‘‘ Shadow mine, it is growing 
late and I am tired. I will take a little nap. 
Good night, my playmate. Come again 
whenever you see that I have turned on 
the moon. Good night, my pretty, pretty, 
pretty, pretty shadow ! ” 

Signora, still tripping a dancing measure, 
drew back to the seat under the tree where 
Tristan and Isolde had sung their love duet. 
She sat there a few moments, her hands 
clasped, and resting on her knees as if she 
were thinking. Then she yawned again, 
and stretching herself out on the grass mat 
that covered the seat, and resting her head 
against some stuffed canvas rocks that were 
as soft as cushions, she closed her eyes and 
fell sound asleep. 

Yudels came down the steps, tip-toed 
across the stage to the property room, where 
he took a rich purple velvet cover, which was 
draped over a throne, and returning to where 
Signora lay asleep, spread it over her. After 
[ 162 ] 


SIGNORA 


switching off the moon, he himself lay down 
on a couch in the property room, and also 
went to sleep. 

Whether Signora was surprised or not 
when she awoke Yudels never knew. He 
was not present at that interesting moment, 
for he slept longer than she did. Nor did 
he refer in any direct way to what he had 
witnessed, though Signora must have known 
from finding herself so well tucked up on 
the garden seat that he had discovered her. 

But Yudels would as soon have been the 
first to speak to a prima donna about some- 
thing he had accidentally learned about her. 
He adored Signora, but he also stood in 
awe of her. Had she wished she might 
have been as pettish and impulsive and as 
unbearable as a spoiled child. But her 
whims like this last one all were artistic. 
Yudels himself had the artistic temperament. 
He recognized it in Signora — in every 
motion of the body, every gesture ; in her 
absorption of everything she saw going on 
behind the scenes ; in the way she looked at 
a scene or listened to a strain of music ; in 
[ 163 ] 


SIGNORA 


the artless grace of every pose ; in the beau- 
tiful modulations of her speaking voice; 
and in the expression she unconsciously put 
into everything she sang — and, while she 
flitted about the opera house, she sang 
pretty much everything she had heard, with 
a feeling all her own too, not merely imi- 
tating what she had heard others do. 

Yudels listened to her with all his ears. 
He had hopes, which he breathed to no one, 
that in this girlish, elusive, elfish child was 
one of the great prima donnas of the future. 
He realized what no one else behind the 
scenes of the opera house did, that Signora 
was absorbing by association, was breathing 
in, as it were, what others required years of 
study to learn. She lived in music, she 
breathed it, she exhaled it. It might be 
‘‘Die Walkure,” “ Les Huguenots,” “ Car- 
men,” “Faust,” “Lucia” — whatever it was 
it made no difference to her. It was second 
nature to her. Her voice was childish, but 
it was pure and absolutely true. Once es- 
tablished she could go on the stage equipped 
as no other singer, for all schools of opera 
[ 164] 


SIGNORA 


would be her’s by nature and absorption. 
That was one reason Yudels treated her 
with a certain degree of reverence. Re- 
moved from him in innate breeding as she 
evidently was, he still might have sought to 
exercise some authority over her. But no ; 
he already saw her a queen of opera, a 
great prima donna, and true to his old-time 
operatic instincts, he worshiped her. 

To Signora her being in the opera house 
seemed perfectly natural. She never asked 
anyone why she was there or why Yudels 
looked after her. Many people had come 
and gone even in her brief time. She 
never concerned herself about whence they 
came or whither they went. They were 
simply parts of that great thing known to 
her as Opera and around which her world 
revolved. She did just whatever she 
wanted to. If she sang or climbed up on 
the Siegfried dragon ; dressed up as Lohen- 
grin ; watched scenery modelled or painted 
and all kinds of curious props being made ; 
chatted familiarly with the great singers — it 
was because she wanted to. For every one 
[ 165 ] 


SIGNORA 


was only too glad to have her do just what 
she wanted to, since, always, it was some- 
thing connected with opera. 

When Yudels saw Signora the morning 
after he had watched her dancing with her 
own shadow, he asked her to come with him 
to the room where the ballet rehearsals 
were held. As they entered, Berteri, the 
ballet master, a small, swarthy, agile looking 
man, in a blue sweater, baggy black trousers, 
and slippers, was listening to the claims of 
several applicants for places in the ballet. 

‘‘Now Mr. Berteri,” said a statuesque 
young woman sailing up to him, “ I’m a 
cloak model, and I’ve used up nearly all my 
lunch hour waiting to see you and I’ve got 
to go. But I just want to tell you that 
the next time I come I’ll bring a friend o’ 
mine, a manicure. Me and she want to go 
into the ballet together. She’s a grand 
waltzer and her hair’s great — blonde, no dye. 
Ta ta, Berti ! ” 

“ Before I begin,” said an artificial Titian 
beauty, as she came forward with a smirk, 
“will my name appear on the programme? 

[ 166] 


SIGNORA 


No ? Then there's no use of my telling you 
what I can do. But you don’t know what 
you’re losing.” With a disdainful toss of 
the head she left. 

A lithe young girl, not far on in her teens 
and evidently foreign, most likely French, 
advanced with an air of confidence, which 
somehow did not seem out of place. Ber- 
teri looked her over, and then without a 
question rapped smartly on a chair with a 
very much frayed rattan, and counted out 
“ Un, deux, trois ! ” She jumped lightly in 
the air, landed on her toes, swayed gracefully, 
kicked with correctly flattened foot, spun 
around, and, as she made a curtsey, giggled 
breathlessly, “I’d rathaire dance zan eat!” 

“ Report at ten to-morrow. And you 
too,” added Berteri addressing a woman in 
black, who looked as if she might grow 
younger if she were a little better taken 
care of. “ I remember you. Don’t you ? ” 
he asked, turning, to Yudels. Then he 
added, as the two women went away, “ Great 
pity. It’s Melissa. In her day, magnifique. 
Bad husband, much babies, but still very 
[ 167] 


SIGNORA 


good. O. K. for ze back row. Pick up in 
looks again when she get back the dancing. 
It ees life to her ! ” 

A huge creature now approached the 
ballet master. “ My dear Berteri,” she 
said patronizingly, “ Pve lost three pounds 
since Saturday. At that rate Pll be ready 
in a month. I came just to let you know. 
Be sure to keep a place for me. Let me 
balance the front row.” 

“ Ze front row ! ” murmured Berteri. “ She 
would hide ze rest of ze stage.” 

“ I suppose you will know me as soon as 
you read my paste-board,” said a flashily 
dressed girl, handing a card to Berteri. 

“Yes, mees, you are ze acrobatic dan- 
seuse.” 

“ Me and my partner are doin’ a ‘ sister 
act’ in the continuous. We’re tired of it. 
We wants to break in here. We’d like the 
society. We won’t have to follow an edu- 
cated pig or a lot o’ trained monkeys, or a 
monologue that’s been runnin’ till it’s tired.” 

“ But what is zere for you here ? ” 

“ I read in the papes how the ballet here 
[ 168 ] 


SIGNORA 


weren’t up to date. Now me an’ my part- 
ner can fix that all right. How would a 
cake walk in ‘ Aida ’ strike you ? That’s a 
burnt cork opera, ain’t it ? — Oh yer don’t 
see it, eh? Well, I say you’re a nice 
lobster, y’ are, to be puttin’ on grand 
opera ! ” 

This was too much even for Berteri, who 
was accustomed to all kinds of applicants. 
He turned to the others who were waiting. 
“ Ladies, I will let you know when to come 
again. I must begin rehearsal.” 

“ Now, ladies, rehearsal ! ” Berteri called 
to the ballet after the others had filed out 
slowly and regretfully. There was a rustle 
of gauze as about half the girls came for- 
ward, their short, stiff, umbrella-like practice 
skirts bobbing like fan-tails with every step. 
Of the others, some were seated and bend- 
ing over, as they took a few last stitches 
in a rent stocking, skirt or bodice. Others 
were munching pieces of cake. Two of the 
girls were feeding each other on bananas. 
Several were standing in a group, too in- 
tent on chatter to hear the ballet master’s 

[ 169] 


SIGNORA 


summons. One was sitting in the window 
sunning herself like a grasshopper. 

Berteri waited a moment, and then rapped 
smartly with his rattan. The group was 
on its feet in an instant ; a gulp and a swal- 
low from the belated lunchers ; a sudden 
straightening up on the part of the girls 
who were chatting, and the corps de ballet 
noiselessly glided into place. It was done 
so quickly and with such light steps, they 
seemed hardly to touch the ground. 

Such a collection of costumes ! Their 
only uniformity was in the professional 
smile, the short, stiff, umbrella-like skirts 
and little white pantalettes that were gath- 
ered at the knee by a tape elastic. Stock- 
ings ? Some wore heavy black-ribbed ones, 
others pink or blue, striped or checked. 
Shirtwaists of various colors, dressing-sacks, 
kimonos and even a walking- jacket were 
included in some of the costumes. What 
a difference between this queer assortment 
of girls and the houris and coryphdes of 
the stage. Here were the butterflies of 
grand opera still in the cocoon state. If 

[ 170 ] 


SIGNORA 


some one had shouted fire at three a. m. and 
they had tumbled into odd bits of clothing 
nearest at hand, the result hardly could have 
been more ludicrous, especially as most of 
them had their hair done up in curlpapers. 

Berteri called the roll. The girls stood 
up in a row leaving a place in the middle 
for him. All clasped hands. Berteri 
nodded to a long-distance pianist, a short, 
round, greasy individual who, half munch- 
ing, half chewing a stogie, sat in his shirt- 
sleeves at an upright piano, the key-board 
of which was streaked with yellow from his 
nicotine-stained fingers. He made a dive 
at the keyboard, and at a sharp “ avancez 
ensemble ” from Berteri, the girls kicked 
their way forward with him in an intricate 
step. 

The ballet master broke away from the 
line and faced his pupils, who fell back and 
let go hands while they waited for his next 
command. There were no new steps to be 
learned, but the ballet has to be rehearsed 
every day to keep limbered up. 

“ Premieres ! ” 


[ 171 ] 


SIGNORA 


Four girls stepped out from the row. 
There were girls of various nationalities in 
the ballet, and Berteri’s orders were given 
in a picturesque variety of tongues — Italian, 
French, English. 

“ Piegare ! — Curtsey ! Posizione per 
prendere le pirouette. Ah, there, you ! Bal- 
ancez ! Cannot you learn to stand wizout 
swaying? — Arabesque! Now, now! Entre 
chat — ze cat’s jump! Body sideways. Ah, 
too stiff ! More like you have oil in ze 
knees and ankles. To dance is a language. 
Speak wiz ze feets, ladies ! Speak wiz ze 
feets ! Changements ! Voila!” He him- 
self danced a few agile steps to show them 
what he meant. 

“‘Carmen’!” 

The pianist drove into Bizet’s ballet 
music while the girls made a dash for the 
tambourines that lay about on chairs and 
tables and on top of the piano. One of the 
girls set the little cymbals in her tambour- 
ine tinkling by giving the pianist a rap over 
his head with the instrument, and tripped 
lightly away giggling, while the pianist, 

[ 172 ] 


SIGNORA 


unable to leave his seat went on playing, but 
followed her retreating form with a look 
half savage, half sentimental. 

‘‘ Ladees ! not so much skies make, or 
what you call zem, skylarks ! ” called out 
Berteri disapprovingly. “ Avancez en- 
semble ! Pas de bourrd ! Faster ! You are 
ze Spanish cigarette girl, not ze German 
peasant. Faster! Plus vite 1 Un, deux, 
trois 1 ” he shouted, while he beat the chair 
furiously with his frayed rattan. At last he 
rushed into the circling lines and seizing a 
tambourine from one of the girls made them 
quicken their steps by setting them an ex- 
ample, his swarthy face and blue sweater 
bobbing up and down amid the variegated 
assortment of costumes. 

“ ‘ Tannhausaire 1* Premieres huit ! he 
shouted. 

Eight of the ballet girls came forward and 
the pianist started up the Venusberg scene. 
Berteri got in among the girls, clapped 
his hands and led them forward, backward 
and this way and that, showing them all 
kinds of graceful arm movements, beckoning, 
[ 173 ] 


SIGNORA 


motioning away and holding up the arms, 
during a long interlude, until every gesture, 
every vibration of the body, every step 
seemed wedded to music, and every girl be- 
gan to express herself with hands, arms, 
legs, feet and body. Meanwhile he shouted, 
‘‘ Chassez a droit ! Repetez a gauche. 
Avancez ensemble ! Speak wiz ze feets ! ” 

When Berteri had dismissed the ballet, 
Yudels stepped up to speak to him. Sig- 
nora knew just why he had taken her into 
rehearsal, and just what he intended saying 
to Berteri. Also she knew just what Ber- 
teri would say. Often she had seen the 
ballet master following approvingly, with his 
eyes, her antics behind the scenes. Berteri 
listened to Yudels while Signora smiled to 
herself. 

“Yudels,” answered Berteri, “you are a 
singer, but of ze dance artistic you know 
nozzings — nozzings, or you would know that 
Signora she know how to dance wizout ze 
le^on or rehearsal. She just watch and she 
know. Show him Signora.” Then turning to 
the pianist who was struggling into his coat 

[ 174 ] 


SIGNORA 


and still munching and smoking a stogie, 
he shouted “ Encore ‘ Tannhausaire ! * ” 

Signora had risen and come forward. 
At the first sound of music she began the 
“ Tannhauser ” ballet which is not a dance at 
all, but the expression in motion, partly of 
sensuous languor, partly of unrestrained 
passion. Now she inclined her supple torso 
backward, now she leaned sideways, her 
neck arched so as to give her head a listen- 
ing poise ; now she circled or glided for- 
ward ; now she described graceful curves 
with every motion of head, limb or body. 
She was like a Greek statue of a young girl 
come to life. Her feet were feathers. She 
trod on air. She was poetry in motion. 

Had Yudels not seen her the previous 
night, dancing in the moonlight on the stage, 
this performance would have been a revela- 
tion to him. But however had she learned 
“Tannhauser”? Moreover it was more 
than “Tannhauser,” for to the usual steps 
and poses she had added numerous little 
expressive gestures and steps, like grace 
notes in a melody. Even Yudels could see 

[ 175 ] 


SIGNORA 


that they were improvements and the result 
of a marvellous artistic temperament. The 
scene over, Signora flitted away with no 
more ado than if what she had done were 
an everyday affair. 

“ How long have you been teaching 
her?” asked Yudels of the ballet master. 

“No le^on ; not one le 9 on. She has 
seen and she has learned just as she does 
wiz everyzing about opera. Dance in ze 
ballet? Whenevaire she wants to. Non! 
Non ! She need nevaire rehearse. It 
would spoil nature. She is a genius. She 
speaks wiz ze feets 1 ” 


[ 176 ] 


XII 


FTER this Signora danced 
with the ballet whenever she wanted to, 
which was not very often. For she knew 
that the greatest thing in opera was the 
voice, not the feet. That she could dance 
might be a great and astounding discovery 
to Yudels but she had known it long before. 
Moreover she had the great singers for her 
companions. The ballet, to her, consisted 
of the small fry. She had no use for the 
premieres quatre, the premiere huits or 
even the prima donna ballerina, let alone 
the “comparsi” or “rats.” But occasional- 
ly, when she felt like limbering up or throw- 
ing herself into a mad whirl, she donned 
costume and dashed in when the dancing 
reached its climax. 

Some time after Signora passed out of 
her childhood there were some changes in 

[ 177 ] 



SIGNORA 


the company. It had been like a great 
family, but now several strange elements 
were introduced. There had been previous 
seasons when Madame Carav^ had remained 
abroad to rest. But she had come back 
again the next year, or at least within a 
couple of years. But she had announced 
her intention of remaining abroad a longer 
period this time. She had been in poor 
health and moody. “Always Carmen — 
possibly now and then Marguerite or San- 
tuzza — but the American public will not 
hear me in other rdles. Abroad I sing every- 
thing. I must stay there or I will lose my 
repertoire.” 

“ But the public must have ‘ Carmen. ’ 
Who will be our Carmen ? ” asked Planky. 

“ Who ? ” repeated the prima donna. 
“Signora — if she will stop going around 
behind the scenes singing to herself and 
sing out, as if she were facing an audience.” 

“Signora?” echoed Planky, but more as 
if he were weighing the words than in sur- 
prise. As for Signora, who was present, 
she did not protest. She had sung the rdle, 

[ 178] 


SIGNORA 


every note of it, over and over again to her- 
self. To sing it for an audience simply 
would mean to put on a Carmen costume and 
stand out on the stage. So when Carave 
spoke, Signora’s eyes flashed with delight. 

All she said was “ Planky, if you are 
Escamillo when I make my debut, will you 
say to me^ ‘ Now zey are going to see ze 
two most beautiful noses in ze company ’ ? ” 
Then she dashed out of the room laughing. 
But she ran upstairs to one of the dressing 
rooms that was unoccupied. Having closed 
the door, she stood in front of the long pier 
glass and began the “ Seguidilla, ” letting 
out her voice so that it reverberated through 
the room, while she swayed gracefully to 
and fro and made all manner of coquettish 
gestures, accompanying these with expres- 
sive glances and bewitching smiles. Here 
was a girl, barely sixteen or seventeen, a 
lighthearted, elfish creature yet who, through 
the unconscious exercise of an artistic tem- 
perament, that vibrated to her very finger 
tips, reproduced the alluring deviltry of 
Carmen, 


[ 179 ] 


SIGNORA 


But it seemed as if the idea that there 
was a great prima donna in Signora had 
occurred to no one about the opera house 
save Yudels and Carave. For one of the 
first things the manager did, after it was 
settled that Carave was not coming back, 
was to make an engagement by cable with 
a prima donna who had made a great suc- 
cess with Carmen in Paris and London. 
With the next season not only was this 
prima donna in the company but there was 
another important addition. For a long 
time J ean had been limiting his appearances 
more and more to Wagner rdles and the 
heavier heroic ones in the general reper- 
toire, like Raoul. He now announced defi- 
nitely that he would eliminate a number of 
rdles from his repertoire, among them Don 
Jose in “ Carmen. ” 

For this reason another tenor, and a good 
one, had to be engaged to take the rdles 
which Jean had discarded. Therefore there 
were two strangers in the company when it 
came together the following season, — the 
new prima donna and the new tenor. Signora 
[ i8o ] 


SIGNORA 


liked neither of them. The woman tried to 
disguise her nervousness over succeeding a 
prima donna of Carave’s great popularity by 
an assumed air of conviction that her own 
performances, especially of Carmen, would 
cause that singer to be completely forgotten. 
As for the tenor there was no assumed air 
of conviction about him. If ever a man 
was certain that he was “ the greatest yet ” 
it was M. Varu. Jean was his special 
aversion. He lost no opportunity to inti- 
mate that that singer was greatly overesti- 
mated in this country. “ He can bark or 
snort through a Wagner night," he once 
confided to Signora. “ But wait till they 
hear me in real opera. I am a real tenor. 
H e is a baritone whose voice has been 
screwed up. Bah ! " 

Undeniably he was a handsome man. 
Born on the border of Spain he had a 
smooth, olive skin, dark hair, large, expres- 
sive brown eyes, gleaming teeth and a tall, 
lithe, responsive figure. Yet Signora dis- 
liked him. Toward the new prima donna 
her feelings were passive. But M. Varu 
[ i8i ] 


SIGNORA 


she positively disliked. It was because of 
his jealousy of Jean, who was one of her 
dear friends, and, even more, because he 
seemed to have taken a tremendous fancy 
to her. 

“ Why is it,’' she asked Planky, “ that 
he always is hanging about me and telling 
me how pretty I look, when I am angry 
at him and my eyes flash ? ” 

“ Come, come. Signora,” Planky would 
say. “ You no longer are a child. You 
know that he is in love with you. It was 
love at first sight too.” 

“ Then when a man makes a nuisance of 
himself, he is in love ? So that is love. I 
am glad to find out what love really is.” 

“ Really is ? ” 

“Yes really Do you know when I 
sing ‘I love you,’ all kinds of strange feel- 
ings move me ; but when I say * I love you ’ 
it is just ‘I love you’ — three words with no 
meaning at all. What is ‘ I love you ’ 
without the music to it? Nothing. Do you 
know, Planky, if I were singing Carmen 
on the stage I would have all her feelings. 

[ 182] 


SIGNORA 


I would be so madly in love with Escamillo 
— even if you were not in the rdle^ Planky” 
(this with delicious coquetry) “ that Don 
Jose’s jealousy would seem perfectly natural. 
But once off the stage, I would simply be 
Signora again. No one can make anything 
but Signora of me, except when on the stage, 
and then I would become whatever character 
I happened to be in. What is done on the 
stage would be real to me. The stage is 
real. It is what happens off the stage that 
is unreal.” 

Planky thought a moment Signora,” 
he said, “you are a true child of the theatre. 
But,” he added jestingly, “ if ever you be- 
come a prima donna, don’t ever sing in 
‘Carmen’ with Varu. For if he sees how 
desperately in love you are with Escamillo 
he will kill you.” 

“ I am not dreaming of becoming a prima 
donna,” said Signora. “And yet, Planky,” 
she continued frankly and without a trace 
of egotism, “do you know it seems as if it 
would be easy for me. All I would have 
to do would be to step out on the stage and 
[ 183] 


SIGNORA 


sing. I sing most of the time, anyhow, and 
what difference does it make where I sing ? 
The only thing I’m afraid of is that if I 
once get on the stage, I won’t give any one 
else a chance, that I’ll want to sing through 
the whole opera — soprano, alto, tenor, bari- 
tone, bass, chorus and all. I know all the 
operas from beginning to end. But here I 
am rattling on and there isn’t a chance of 
my becoming a prima donna. I’m only 
Signora. There are too many of them now ; 
at all events there is one too many right in 
this company. Then you know, Planky, I 
haven’t a beautiful nose and I couldn’t think 
of singing Carmen to your Toreador and 
not have you say as we went on ‘ Now zey 
are going to see ze two most beautiful noses 
in ze company.’ ” 

Planky looked at her for the first time, it 
seemed to her, seriously. “ I will say it. Sig- 
nora, if you will say * I love you’ to me, and 
have it mean more than ^ just three words.’ ” 

But even before he had finished Signora 
had half flitted, half floated away. As she 
reached the wings she turned. He was 
[ 184 ] 


SIGNORA 


following her with a curious look — half 
amused, half sad. A sudden impulse, a 
wholly new one, came over her. She felt 
like rushing back, jumping up and throwing 
her arms around his neck. She hesitated. 
For the first time in her life she checked an 
impulse. A roguish finger-shake, an elfish 
glance, and she vanished behind the wings 
into one of the dressing rooms. 

“ I ’m only Signora,” she had said in self- 
deprecation. Yet her opportunity was to 
come sooner than she or any one else, for 
that matter, had any idea of. The new 
prima donna made her debut as Carmen. 
It was barely more than a succds d'estime. 
The applause always came from the same 
few spots in the house, something which 
means “ paper” and a small personal claque. 
In fact compared with the tumult which had 
attended Madame Carave’s Carmen ddbut, 
and the ovation always accorded her, the 
new prima donna made a distinct failure. 
If, however, she was aware of that fact 
nothing in her bearing indicated it. One 
would have imagined from her air of 
[ 185 ] 


SIGNORA 

assurance that she had made a brilliant 
success. 

Her debut had been on Monday and, as 
was customary, a repetition of the perfor- 
mance had been billed for Friday. Every 
one supposed that, after such a fiasco, she 
would beg off and that some other opera 
would be substituted. But Friday came and 
no change. She had even asked for and 
been granted an extra rehearsal for certain 
scenes on Thursday. All day Friday the 
manager sat in his office waiting for the 
note which would tell him that she was “in- 
disposed” and would be unable to appear 
that evening. He was prepared to hang up 
in the lobby the customary notice that “ow- 
ing to the sudden indisposition of Mme 

the management had been compelled to 

change the opera from ‘Carmen* to 

But noon came and four o’clock and six — 
and no note. It was then too late to have 
changed the bill, in any event, so the mana- 
ger went out for a bite. He really began 
to have a feeling of admiration for the 
prima donna. Where another would have 
[ 186] 


SIGNORA 


packed her trunks and sailed for Europe by 
the next steamer she was going to stay and 
face an unfavorably disposed audience again. 

It was drawing near the time for the per- 
formance. Planky and Varu and the other 
principals already were in their dressing- 
rooms. They could be heard trying snatches 
of their rdles. For half an hour members 
of the chorus had been crossing the stage 
on the way to the dressing-rooms, and many 
of them, already in their gay toggery, were 
chatting in the wings. The boss carpenter 
was testing the bridge, over which Carmen 
makes her entrance, to make sure that it 
was firmly set up and would not begin to 
wobble — which stone bridges should not do. 
The orchestra was arriving. In fact, a 
double bass player, one of whose heavy 
strings had broken, was in his place putting 
on a new one, and you could hear the deep 
growl of the instrument as he drew his bow 
across it. But the prima donna had not 
arrived. The costumes were hanging or 
spread out in her dressing-room, but neither 
she nor her maid were there. 

[ 187] 


SIGNORA 


It was time for the doors at the front of 
the house to open. Still no prima donna. 
Suddenly the manager appeared. It was 
evident he was furious. In his hand he 
held a letter. Look I ” the word came 
from between his teeth as he held it up to 
Planky. Others gathered around. They 
knew without reading what was the matter. 
The prima donna had held on till the last 
moment, then her spirit had given out. It 
was the usual physician’s certificate, but 
really she had lost heart. It meant the 
worst thing that can happen to a manager, 
a “ dark house ” — turning an audience away 
and having no performance. As all realized 
this, there was a sudden silence. At that 
moment a clear, strong voice was heard 
singing : 

“ Pres des remparts de Seville.” 

The manager started. It was so like 
Carave. It sounded as if she were singing 
over the Seguidilla before “going on.” 

“ Signora ! ” exclaimed Planky. 

“ Signora ! ” echoed the chorus. 

“Signora?” queried the manager, under 
[ 188 ] 


SIGNORA 


his breath. Just then Signora came on. 
As usual on Carmen nights she had donned 
her Carmen costume. It seemed as if she 
were the prima donna — all ready to go on. 
She looked at the people who were eyeing 
her so expectantly. Planky explained ; 
‘‘Signora!” he said. “You know Carmen. 
You can sing it. Remember what Carave 
said. Will you ? ” 

“Why not ? I have sung it since I was 
a baby.” 

The manager said nothing. He was ac- 
customed to taking chances, and, after all, 
was this such a great one ? The group dis- 
persed to their places, the orchestra began 
tuning up. Signora stood in the wings; 
Varu came up to her. He was excited. 

“It is the great moment of your life, 
Signora. You are to sing with me. I will 
help make you famous, for you will have 
the greatest Don Jose to act with you. 
Say you love me. Signora. Bah 1 when I 
think of the women who adore me — coun- 
tesses, princesses — queens — and I am to al- 
low myself to be put off by you, a child who 
[ 189 ] 


SIGNORA 


does not know its own mind? You think 
you are in love with Planky.” (He laughed 
sardonically.) “In love with a basso when 
you can have a tenor and a great tenor at 
that. You shrink from me?” (His eyes 
flashed with rage.) “You must love me, 
you shall love me, and to-night, or — ” His 
hand went to his dagger hilt. 

Signora heard Planky in another part of 
the wings trying a few bars of the Toreador 
song which the orchestra was playing in the 
overture. She ran up to him, and, stand- 
ing beside him, thrust her little hand in his 
big palm. He seemed to her like a pro- 
tector. She felt as if she needed one. He 
construed her action as a mark of gratitude 
at his having suggested her to the manager, 
or as evidence of a slight feeling of timidity 
now that she really was to confront an audi- 
ence, and he beamed down upon her reas- 
suringly from his height. 

The orchestra nearly had finished the 
short overture. She heard the buzzer, the 
electric signal, for the curtain. It had a 
new significance for her. As the curtain 

[ 190 ] 


SIGNORA 


rose, and, unseen herself, she had a view of 
part of the house, she remembered a lot 
of trivial things about some of the people in 
the boxes which had been told her by the 
American prima donna, who was quite a 
society pet. There sat the millionaire, who 
when his daughter became engaged to an 
English lord, told the reporters who called 
to see him about it, that so long as his 
daughter was bound to marry a foreign 
nobleman he was glad he was to have a son- 
in-law whom he could swear at in his own 
language. In the next box was the dowager, 
of whom people said that she was ** not so 
bad as she was painted^' with much empha- 
sis on painted. She was with one of the 
upstart leaders of the four-hundred who 
was so ill-educated that, after purchasing 
some curtains, she told a friend that she had 
been “ so busy all day buying the port 
coch^res for her parlor. ” 

H ow much longer Signora would have 
allowed her eyes to wander along the box 
tier there is no knowing. She was recalled 
by Planky. The call boy was coming to 

[ 191 3 


SIGNORA 


warn her of her cue. She withdrew her 
hand from Planky’s and hurried to the spot 
from which she was to make her entrance 
over the bridge. She heard the factory 
bell ; the tenors, La cloche est sonn^e ” 
(the bell is striking) ; the basses, Mais nous 
ne voyons pas la Carmencita ” (but why do 
we not see Carmen ? ). A touch from 
Planky. She was on the bridge, waving 
her fan and laughing ; now halfway across 
it — and the house applauding. 


1 19* ] 


XIII 



ence though, like all audiences when a 
change is announced in an important mem- 
ber of the cast, disappointed and determined 
to sulk, recognized almost the instant Sig- 
nora came over the bridge with a saucy 
toss of the head and waving a red poppy in 
the hand, that here was a successor to 
Caravd. The litheness, the unconscious 
grace, were apparent, and the magnetism 
which is inseparable from real artistic tem- 
perament — qualities in her which for years 
had captivated every one behind the scenes 
— had in a few moments communicated 
themselves to the “ front of the house/* 
Planky stood in the wings and marvelled. 
Varu was devouring her with his eyes. 
Not a motion did he lose as, flirting with 

[ 193 ] 


SIGNORA 


her fan, and with glances full of witchery at 
him, she sang the ‘‘ Habanera,*' taking a 
high note which she allowed to die away 
without robbing it of its sensuous beauty, 
then tripping away from the crowd to where 
Don Jose sat, pressing an acacia flower, 
suddenly and wholly unexpectedly, tightly 
upon his lips, letting it drop at his feet, 
and then lightly running away with a rip- 
pling laugh into the cigarette factory. It 
was all done with inimitable coquetry. The 
audience was in a ferment of enthusiasm. 
And later after the quarrel scene and her 
arrest — the angry stamp of the foot ; the 
nonchalance with which she powdered her 
face when told she was to go to prison ; her 
bravado air as she sang the ‘‘tra la la la ” ; 
her mocking, military step as she followed 
Don Jose ; the enchanting archness and 
insinuating witchery of the “ Seguidilla ” 
— ^when the curtain fell she had scored a 
triumph such as no one before her except 
Carave had done. 

Yet she was not an imitation of Caravd. 
There were innumerable telling bits of 
[ 194 ] 


SIGNORA 


stage “business” which no one had used 
before. Every one behind the scenes was 
in ecstasy, except she herself. She took 
it all very quietly. “ I have been singing 
it for years. I should know it.” Then 
she broke away from the crowd and went to 
her dressing-room, but not until Planky had 
raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, and 
she had, with a laugh, refused the same 
favor to Varu. She did not see the look of 
hatred he gave Planky, as if he were Don 
Jose, and Planky the Toreador, in real life. 

Everything went beautifully in the next 
two acts and the enthusiasm of the audience 
increased with every scene. Signora’s mag- 
netism and abandon seemed contagious. It 
pervaded the whole performance. Planky 
never had sung the famous “Toreador, en 
garde !” so well. He appeared keyed up 
by a desire to give every possible brilliance 
to Signora’s d^but. 

Varu also outdid himself and near the 
end of the third act, when Don Jose and 
Escamillo have the knife duel, which Car- 
men breaks off, he made such a savage 

[ 195 ] 


SIGNORA 


onslaught that it seemed to require all of 
Planky’s skill to parry his thrusts and escape 
a real injury. 

“ Signora,” said Planky after they came 
back from acknowledging many times the 
outburst of enthusiasm which followed the 
falling of the curtain, ‘‘have a care. Varu 
meant to kill me. I am sure of it. He is 
mad with jealousy. I will watch out for 
you, but have a care yourself ! ” Signora 
laughed. “ ‘ Killed on the night of her 
ddbuP — wouldn’t it sound romantic?” 

“It would be terrible r' Then with a 
depth of feeling she had never heard from 
him, save when he sang, Planky exclaimed, 
“It would make me wretched for life ! ” 

“ Planky, ” she said with a tantalizing 
smile, “ I believe you really are growing 
fond of me. You must have discovered 
that I, too, have a beautiful nose ! ” Then 
she took her station in the wings to be 
ready for going on. 

Everything seemed confusion on the 
stage, yet everything was proceeding by 
method. Several “ grips ” were taking away 
[ 196 ] 


SIGNORA 


the steps by which Michaela had ascended 
to the “runway” over which she had made 
her entrance. Others were folding up 
rocks and running them off ; still others 
carrying off trees. There was a general 
upheaval of nature. Into the place where a 
rocky back-ground had been a few minutes 
before, there descended a small drop show- 
ing the bull-fight arena and an audience 
of painted faces. Some ten feet in front of 
this descended another drop showing the 
front wall of the arena with large, heavy, 
wooden practical doors. The street scene, 
the Plaza del Toro, with the orange vendor’s 
stand on the right, extended from this to the 
footlights. In the wings the “ super cap- 
tain,” was giving the soldiers an extra 
rehearsal in their evolutions. Property 
men were putting the trappings on horses 
and mules. Others in the opposite wings 
were putting baskets filled with sawdust in 
place to fool the animals and lure them 
quickly across the stage. The street cloth 
was run over the stage floor. 

The stage manager clapped his hands. 

[ 197 ] 


SIGNORA 


The prompter straightened up in his box, 
the conductor dove into the little hole that 
led down to the orchestra, the elec- 
trician gave his last orders — “get a little 
amber in your tops — they’re jumping — now 
let go with your borders ! ” The street 
people — vendors, citizens, gendarmes — 
went on. “ Buzz-buzz-buzz,” — up went the 
curtain. 

Then came the ballet with its tambourines 
and castanets. The line formed a semi- 
circle by interlocking arms over shoulders 
and, swaying to and fro, with the premiere 
pirouetting in front, danced down to the 
footlights. Then a rush of all toward one 
of the wings and there entered the proces- 
sion to the arena, the doors of which swung 
open. 

First came the Alguacil on horseback, 
then the chulos, bearing the colors. Cries 
from the crowd greeted the banderilleros 
dressed in bespangled green and waving 
crimson cloths. Shouts of “The picadors 
with those pointed lances ! ” — “ The cuad- 
rilla of toreros.” A tremendous shout and 

[ 198 ] 


SIGNORA 


Escamillo entered with Carmen. ‘‘Vive 
Escamillo ! Bravo! Bravo!” Last of all 
the Alcade and his guards. 

The crowd entered the arena. The 
doors were closed. The street was deserted 
save for Carmen, who there awaited the 
issue of the bull-fight, and Don Jose, who 
had slunk in almost at the last. 

Behind the drop representing the front 
of the arena the bull-fight was supposed 
to be in progress. The opera, it will be 
remembered, reaches its climax as Carmen, 
hearing Escamillo acclaimed victor, rushes 
toward the arena, pursued by Don Jose, 
who, as she reaches the entrance, overtakes 
her and drives his dagger into her back, she 
falling at the very doors just as they swing 
open to let out the crowd shouting for 
Escamillo, who comes forward to find the 
woman he expected to greet him lying dead 
at his feet. 

Inside the arena, however, there is no 
charging bull. A stage hand in his shirt 
sleeves sits on a box holding in his hand a 
string attached to the doors so that he can 

[ 199 ] 


SIGNORA 


pull them open at the critical moment. 
This evening, however, Planky made him 
get up and took his place. He was anxious 
for Signora. He dreaded the final scene, 
and wanted to be where he could watch 
part of the stage through the crack between 
the doors. 

The ballet had dashed off to their dress- 
ing rooms. One of the “ props ” gathered 
in the crimson cloths of the toreros, and the 
lances of the picadors, and carried them off. 
The horses and mules were standing con- 
tentedly off in the wings among the rocks, 
houses, bridges and runways that had been 
shoved into a corner from the previous acts. 
On an empty box stood a man directing the 
rays of an electric calcium on to the arena 
drop so that, when the doors swung open, 
it would show up the painted audience well, 
and give an air of verisimilitude to a bald 
and unconvincing falsehood. Near him, in 
street clothes and with hats tipped in va- 
rious askews stood the brass band, which 
was to play the flourishes when Escamillo is 
supposed to enter the arena and despatch 
[ 200 ] 


SIGNORA 


the bull. A mule, in search of oats, poked 
his nose into the bell of one of the French 
horns. The player thrust the instrument 
at the beast’s head and it went back to its 
place among the rocks. Soldiers were 
sitting around on stray scenic steps, and 
the chorus was standing about in small 
groups. 

Michaela, who, having nothing to do af- 
ter the third act, had dressed to go home, 
crossed through the arena on her way to the 
street. Seeing Planky sitting on the box 
holding the doorstring in his hand, she 
was about playfully to knock his hat off his 
head, when a realistic outcry from Carmen 
arrested her attention. As she listened 
she could almost feel the emotional tension 
to which the audience had been worked up. 
Evidently, the scene was being carried out 
with wonderful dramatic force. 

She spoke to Planky, but he did not seem 
to hear her. He was winding the torero’s 
crimson cloth in heavy folds around his left 
arm. He had heard a note of real terror in 
Sigfnora’s outcry. He knew that she had 
[ 201 ] 


SIGNORA 


become aware of her danger, but he also 
knew that the time for him to act had not 
yet come. Above all, whatever happened, 
the scene must not be spoiled. His artistic 
instincts forbade that. 

Signora could at any moment escape into 
the wings, run around to the arena, and be 
safe with him. But he knew she would not, 
for that would spoil the scene — and she, too, 
was an artist. Then there was Varu. He 
intended to kill her. Of that Planky was 
sure. But there was no danger that he 
would attempt it until the moment called 
for in the opera, when Carmen reached the 
door of the arena. They all were artists, 
all governed by the theatrical instinct, and 
not one of them would go out of “ char- 
acter ” till the proper climax was reached. 

It was coming. The band broke in. 
The crowd in the arena shouted. Planky 
heard Signora’s and Varu’s footsteps as she 
rushed for the doors, with him in hot pursuit. 

“ Planky ! Planky ! ” he heard her call be- 
neath her breath. He saw the savage look 
in Varu’s eyes. He saw him raise the knife. 

[ 202 ] 


SIGNORA 


In a moment it would be buried to the hilt 
in Signora’s back. 

The time to open wide the doors had not 
yet come. But Planky made a slight crev- 
ice between them and, as the knife flashed 
through the air on its fatal errand, he thrust 
out his arm and caught the point on the 
crimson cloak. Varu was between him and 
the audience. They did not see what was 
done. He felt the force of the madman’s 
blow. Then he heard Signora’s agonized 
shriek — a shriek which so thrilled the audi- 
ence that, as Planky pulled the string and 
the doors swung back, allowing the crowd 
to surge out, the whole house burst into an 
uproar of applause. Signora had been 
saved — and so had the scene. 

Down came the curtain. Varu slunk 
away. (He took the next steamer for Eu- 
rope, much to the surprise of the opera pub- 
lic, which never knew why.) Planky raised 
Signora from the floor. She looked at him 
in a dazed, frightened way, as if she hardly 
could realize that she was out of danger. 
Her cry had been real. It had been a call 
to him and he had responded. 

[ 203 ] 


SIGNORA 


Beyond the curtain the house was in a tu- 
mult. Signora seemed so weak, Planky al- 
most had to drag her through the prosce- 
nium door. Men were applauding, women 
waving their kerchiefs and wraps and throw- 
ing flowers. A crowd gathered in “crank s 
alley,” the space just in front of the prosce- 
nium arch, and shouted every time Planky 
and Signora passed in and out, which was 
many times. But Plankey almost had to 
drag her, for she clung to him as if she 
would drop without his support. 

At last the house lights were ordered 
down and the crowd gradually dispersed. 
Planky gathered the girl in his arms and 
carried her to her dressing room where he 
placed her on a couch. She lay there, her 
eyes closed. He knelt beside her. 

“ Is there anything else I can do for you. 
Signora,” he asked. Slowly she opened her 
eyes. 

“ Planky ! ” she said, “ dear Planky ! would 
you still like me to say ‘ I love you ’ and not 
have it sound just like three words?” He 
answered with his eyes. Signora put her 
[ 204 ] 


SIGNORA 


arms around his neck. “I love you, I love 
you, I love you ! ” she said with a depth of 
feeling that thrilled him with happiness. 

There were sounds near the door. They 
looked up. There were the rest of the com- 
pany waiting to congratulate Signora on 
her triumph. But they had taken in the 
situation and were beaming all over with 
joy. Signora saw them. Drawing back a 
little and giving Planky a roguish smile, she 
said : — 

“ Now, Planky, zey are going to see ze 
two most beautiful noses in ze company I ” 


[ 205 ] 







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JUN 15 1907 





